The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6)

by Lee Duigon

  He was scandalized that God would let such contemptible creatures as these get away with any of their crimes. As outlaws in the forest, they lived by terrorizing isolated settlers. Helki had chased them out of Lintum Forest, so now they’d turned their hands to kidnapping. What heroes!

  “You aren’t going to get any money at all,” Jack couldn’t help saying, “once they find out I’m not the king. If you really want King Ryons, why don’t you go back to Lintum Forest and try to take him? It ought to be easy for brave men like you!”

  The man who was carrying him across his shoulders stopped. “That’ll be enough out of you, Your Royal Cusset Highness!” he growled.

  “Easy on the merchandise,” said Ysbott. “The prattling of a child can’t hurt you, Neff. Or have you suddenly developed tender feelings?”

  “It isn’t right that he should sass us.”

  “His sassing days will soon be over, once we get to Silvertown. That should be in just another day or two—if you can stop your dawdling.”

  They were already heading back uphill. Spurred on by Ysbott, they’d made better time than Jack thought possible. The mountains towered over them, but they weren’t going that far up: just to Silvertown, and to whatever fate lay waiting for him there, Jack thought.

  The men marched at a brisk pace, and Jack prayed silently, fearful that his prayers would go unheard.

  The great bird was annoyed.

  A ridiculously tiny red-haired creature was harassing her so that she couldn’t dine in peace. Indeed, she had yet to begin her meal. There lay the man, half-dead, just waiting to be devoured—and this little nuisance screeched and jabbered at her, dancing all around and trying to threaten her with a tiny twig.

  She darted her head and snapped at it, but her jaws came together with only a loud “clack!” to show for it. She was more than annoyed; now she was positively furious.

  “Parasite! Carrion eater! Big clumsy lizard! I empty my glands in your direction!”

  Wytt’s insults meant nothing to the bird, although they were among the most offensive known to the Omah. But his shrill cries went right to the bone, and now nothing would satisfy the bird but to crush this little hairy pest in her beak. She forgot the meal in front of her. Hissing like a serpent, she chased Wytt, striking at him again and again but always missing. The more often she missed, the greater burned her rage.

  So it was when thirteen men rode up on thirteen horses, and the rays of the sinking sun glinted red off the points of twelve good spears. The men shouted and brandished the spears, and the bird had to take notice of that. She threatened them with gaping jaws, but they ignored that and advanced on her. Too many men, too many spears! With a final defiant, frustrated cry, the bird wheeled and swiftly galloped away from them. A good horse would have been hard put to overtake her.

  Only then did the riders see the man lying facedown on the grass. Wytt was already bent over him, intently sniffing at his hair.

  “Here is Whiteface!” he shrilled to Ellayne. “Ugly bird wanted to eat him.”

  “Martis? Martis!”

  Ellayne tried to jump down from Aswyll’s horse, but only succeeded in falling off. She was up in an instant and kneeling over Martis.

  “He lives,” Wytt told her.

  “It’s Martis!” she cried to the sergeant. “He’s hurt, but still alive.”

  Kadmel dismounted and joined Ellayne. He’d had much experience in the realm of wounds and injuries; he’d seen them all. Gently he turned the body. Martis sighed, but didn’t come to. Kadmel examined him.

  “He’s all worn out,” he said, “and he’s had a bad knock on the head. But once we get some food and water into him, he ought to be all right, by and by.” He turned back to his men. “We’ll make camp here,” he said. “It’s as good a place as any.”

  Only then did Ellayne discover that she had tears running down her cheeks. She snatched Wytt up and kissed him. He made an angry, buzzing sound that meant that he was happy.

  CHAPTER 9

  How Ysbott Earned a Reward

  They lost a day because Martis wasn’t fit to travel.

  “Never mind me!” he said. “You came out here to rescue Jack—now do it!”

  “If you rest a day, you’ll be able to ride,” Kadmel said—meaning Martis would have to double up with a trooper. “We might need you when we catch up to those men.”

  “You might not catch up to them at all, if you stay here all day,” Martis said.

  “Who were they? Tell us about them.”

  “There’s nothing I can tell. I saw them for only the blink of an eye. I don’t know who they were or anything else.”

  He tried again to convince Kadmel to leave him behind, but to no avail. “Help me, Ellayne!” he said. But she didn’t know what to think. All she knew for sure was that if the riders hadn’t come along when they had, the bird would have killed Martis—Wytt’s efforts notwithstanding.

  “We can’t just leave you here to die,” she said.

  “I’m not going to die,” he answered. “Jack’s in more danger than I am!”

  “We’re on horseback; those men are on foot,” said Kadmel. “We’ll catch them.”

  But they didn’t catch the outlaws.

  As Ysbott’s band drew nearer to Silvertown, he drove them harder, and they were eager to get there. They took a shortcut through some miles of dense woodland on the hills, a route that Ysbott seemed to know, and it brought them out on the mail trail to Silvertown. It was more of a road than a trail, suitable even for carts, and here they made good time indeed—so much so, that they reached Silvertown ahead of Kadmel’s horsemen.

  Silvertown had suffered in the war. A well-equipped Heathen army breached the walls and burned much of the city to the ground. Goryk Gillow had pressed the people into labor to mend the wall, throw up a mass of ramshackle housing, and in the center of the town, erect a new chamber house in place of the old one, which had been destroyed.

  It was an ugly building, Jack thought—just the thing for such a place as this. For Goryk Gillow ruled Silvertown by violence and fear. His Heathen army, several thousand men, camped in a stockade beside the city, mostly in tents. As you approached the gates of Silvertown, you saw dead men hanging from gallows, left up there as a warning to the living. Everywhere you saw gangs of men, women, and even children toiling away at one project or another, with armed Heathen warriors as their overseers. A squad of kilted Dahai guarded the gate and let them in, once Ysbott had briefly stated his business—“Delivering a prisoner to His Grace the First Prester.”

  “Looks like they’ve got things really humming around here,” said one of the bandits, as they passed through the gate.

  “The new First Prester is a man of vision,” Ysbott said. “Someday there will be other cities in Obann that look like this. Remember, it’s good to be on the winning side.”

  “Siding with a lot of murdering tyrants!” Jack thought. Silvertown was the most hideous place he’d ever seen. The people all looked hungry and scared. Many of them wore only rags. Their houses were gone, and now they lived in hovels. “Why, Lord?” he prayed silently. “Why do you let these things be done? Why don’t you stop the people who do them?” He was so incensed by what he saw that he forgot to be afraid, but not for long.

  Ysbott and his men made their way to the chamber house. They were almost there when a stout, uncouth-looking man accosted them.

  “Who are you, and where are you going?” he said. He looked like a man who wanted to fight.

  “I am Ysbott the Snake, from Lintum Forest. We’ve come to see His Grace the First Prester and present him with a prisoner—this boy.” Ysbott nodded, and the man carrying Jack set him down on his feet, keeping a firm grip on his wrist.

  “Captain Iolo, I am,” the stout man said. “The First Prester is a very busy man. No one gets to see him unless I say so.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see this prisoner, Captain.”

  Iolo spat on the ground, just a little
short of Ysbott’s foot. “We’re always getting beggars from Lintum Forest—chased out by Helki, so they come to us. More mouths to feed! But if one of you was to bring us Helki’s head on a spear, then you’d get a proper welcome.”

  It struck Jack that this man, obviously Obannese, used to be a soldier. He still carried himself like one. But now he served the enemy. Oh, if only the king and the baron would come here with an army!

  “Captain Iolo,” Ysbott said, “I’m sure the First Prester will rejoice when he lays eyes on this prisoner. But to present the lad to you first would be impolite. We don’t want to offend His Grace.”

  Iolo chewed on the inside of his cheek. He looked like an irritable bull maybe getting ready to charge.

  “Wait out here,” he said. He went into the chamber house and shut the door after him.

  “Not much of a reception,” one of the bandits muttered.

  “Be patient,” Ysbott said.

  A few minutes later, Iolo came back out.

  “He’ll see you,” he said, “but just you, Ysbott, and the prisoner. The rest of you stay right here.”

  Ysbott took Jack by the elbow, with a grip that said he’d twist his arm and break it if Jack gave him any trouble. Iolo led them into the chamber house.

  They went through the assembly hall, a big, empty space like the inside of a barn, devoid of decoration. The light, what there was of it, was murky. Jack smelled animal fat and guessed they must be short of decent oil for the lamps. Iolo led them into one chamber, then another, and finally into a room where there was a rug on the floor, more light, less of a bad smell, and two men waiting.

  One was a little, bow-legged man with a peach-shaped head and dark eyes shaped like almonds. He wore a buckskin shirt and leggings, but Jack recognized him as someone from a faraway Heathen country in the East.

  The other was tall, gaunt, clean-shaven, with shifty pale eyes and thin, pale lips. He dressed in black, with a scarlet ribbon draped over one shoulder and across his chest—Temple colors, like Martis used to wear when he was a servant of the Temple. But Martis’ colors were real, and this man’s were a fraud. Iolo bowed to him.

  “My Lord First Prester,” he said, “this is Ysbott from Lintum Forest, with his prisoner.” Ysbott bowed deeply; Jack was surprised he knew how. The false First Prester nodded to him. Ysbott twisted Jack’s arm and made him bow, too.

  “I’m done for!” Jack thought. “No way out of this!” God hadn’t heard his prayers, after all.

  “Who is your prisoner, friend? And why have you brought him to me?”

  “My lord,” said Ysbott, “this prisoner is Ryons, the so-called king of Obann. I captured him for no other reason but to deliver him to you, to do with as you please.”

  Goryk Gillow looked at Jack. Jack tried not to look away, but he was afraid of this man. To be at the mercy of someone who was truly evil—Jack couldn’t help it: he averted his eyes.

  And Goryk Gillow laughed.

  “I commend you for your enterprise, Ysbott! Honestly, I do. You’ve made no small effort for my benefit, and I appreciate it. The only difficulty is this—that boy is not King Ryons!” And he laughed some more, and Ysbott stood there staring stupidly.

  “My lord—” he started to say.

  “No, no, my friend! There is no doubt about it,” Goryk said. “You see, I myself have on two occasions seen King Ryons with my own eyes and spoken to him. This boy is older than the king and taller. His eyes are blue, but the king’s are almost black. There’s no possibility that I’m mistaken.”

  “Trying to cheat us!” Iolo growled. “Playing us for fools!”

  “No—not so, my lord!” Suddenly Ysbott was afraid. Jack reveled in it. “This boy was brought to Lintum Forest, to Helki. And then Helki sent him to a town called Ninneburky. I followed. For months my men and I spied on that town. They put this boy in the baron’s house! They had a man guarding him—”

  Goryk held up a hand. Ysbott immediately fell silent.

  “You have made a mistake, my friend,” Goryk said. “An honest mistake, I think. Nevertheless, the fact remains that this boy is not the king of Obann.”

  “It’s interesting, though!” The bow-legged Heathen spoke for the first time. His Obannese was very good. “If one can make such a mistake, maybe others—many others—might make the same mistake.” He finished with a throaty chuckle.

  “Mardar Zo, you have a beautiful mind!” Goryk said, grinning at him. “It may be that Ysbott’s little enterprise will profit us, after all.” He turned to Iolo. “Captain, see that Ysbott and his men are given refreshment and some time to rest. Tomorrow, pay each of the men five pieces of silver and a gold piece for Ysbott.” He smiled at the outlaw. “You have done well, Ysbott. Please consider me your friend, and go in peace. Perhaps we’ll meet again, someday.”

  Jack could have laughed at the look on Ysbott’s face. A sack of silver moons and a single gold spearman was probably more money than these fools had ever possessed in all their lives. But compared to what they’d been expecting, it was chicken feed. Why, Ellayne had more money than that in an old slipper under her bed.

  Ysbott stared. He’d been insulted, and there was nothing he could do about it. Probably he was lucky to get out of Silvertown alive, Jack thought. Served him right!

  “You heard,” said Iolo. “Let’s go.”

  “The boy stays here,” Goryk Gillow said, and Jack’s heart slid down to his shoes. He’d been thinking he would be sent packing along with Ysbott. Why would this murdering villain want to keep him?

  Iolo grunted and gave Ysbott a little push to get him started. He hustled Ysbott out of the chamber, leaving Jack alone with Obann’s enemy.

  CHAPTER 10

  The King in the Forest

  As horrified as Ellayne was to see Wytt fighting a duel with a giant bird to keep it from devouring Martis, she might have fainted if she could have seen King Ryons.

  Many miles away in Lintum Forest, just as Kadmel’s men were chasing off the bird, Ryons knelt over a little spring-fed pool to take a drink of water. No man stood beside him to protect him, but he was not alone. His great dog, Cavall, was drinking, too, noisily lapping water from the pool.

  Towering over them stood one of the gigantic killer birds. It watched the boy and the dog for a moment, then dipped its massive hooked beak—

  And sipped the water.

  This bird, unlike all the others of its kind, had a name: Baby. It had that name because Perkin the wanderer had raised it from a tiny, fuzzy chick that could sit in the palm of one hand. Perkin and Baby protected Ryons on his journey from Obann to the forest, and now they lived with him at Carbonek.

  “This bird would give his life for me,” Perkin said, “and he’ll learn to feel the same about you, if you give him time.” So Perkin and Helki had decided that Ryons ought to make friends with Baby and spend time with him alone in the forest. Baby slept at night in a corral, but it was now safe to let him out during the day: he never threatened any of the settlers.

  “A king can’t have too much protection,” Helki said. “This forest is your home now, and you have to learn to be at home in it. Who knows? There may come a time when I won’t be able to watch over you. Maybe your Ghols won’t be there, either.”

  “Not while any of us live!” said Chagadai, the Ghols’ captain. “Where our father goes, we go.” He said nothing about Ryons having slipped away from them on two separate occasions. Chagadai himself was old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, but it was the custom of the Ghols to call Ryons their father.

  “It won’t hurt your father to learn how to be on his own in the woods,” Helki said. Chagadai admitted that this was good sense. From then on, it was decided, Ryons should spend a certain amount of time in the forest by himself, learning the lessons Helki taught him.

  They were many lessons—what you could eat, and what you couldn’t, and how to find it; how to move silently and leave no trail to follow, and how to leave a trail your friends could follow;
and how to understand what the birds and beasts were saying when they called. The Ghols taught him horsemanship and archery and the art of knife-throwing, and Obst and Perkin taught him how to read and write, using Obst’s book of Scripture as the text. Most importantly, Obst taught him the meaning of the Scriptures.

  “In these books,” Obst said, “God speaks to us. To know Him, you must know the Scriptures.”

  It was a lot to take in, for a boy—especially for a former slave who hadn’t even had a name until Obst had given him one. But Ryons applied himself to learning, because he knew it would all be useful to him—and besides, he found it interesting. The more he learned, the easier it was to learn still more.