TWENTY-FOUR
BLAZER’S HOOVES sounded dull thunder over the great planks of the drawbridge; his iron shoes struck sparks from the stone flagging of the gatehouse road. Shouts of “The King is coming! Open the gates! The King is here!” preceded him, and startled gatekeepers leaped into action.
Horse and rider jolted to a stop in the inner ward yard. Squires dashed up to take the King’s well-lathered mount. Without a word Quentin went straight into the castle, through the banquet hall filled with people still lingering over their midday meal, and on to the throne room.
He flew up the steps to the Dragon Throne and threw off his soiled cloak as he collapsed into the throne. Quentin called angrily for his High Minister, his voice booming out into the quiet of the deserted throne room. His call was answered with a flurry of footsteps, but no sign of Toli.
Quentin seethed inside. He had risen late-later than he had planned-and had started his journey to Askelon after the sun was well up. This put him in a raw mood. Every stride was too slow after that, and he arrived in Askelon harried, fuming, and out of patience.
He had slept well enough, curled in his cloak on the farmer’s own bed-the farmer’s wife would not have it any other way but that the King should have their bed-and awakened feeling better than he had in days. But his tardy start, and the dark thoughts of what awaited him in Askelon, soon destroyed the fragile peace he had achieved.
As a result, he now raged about the lack respect for his person and the slipshod attention his interests received.
“Where is the High Minister?” he bellowed. His voice echoed back to him from the far corners of the empty hall.
There was no answer.
Quentin sank deeper into his melancholy. He shouted again and this time heard answering footsteps.
“Well?” He looked down to see Hagin, the warder, coming resolutely toward him.
The man bowed when he reached the dais and said simply, “My lord, you have returned.”
“Yes, I have returned,” Quentin snapped. “Where is everyone? Tell me quickly if you value your tongue.”
Hagin appeared unperturbed. His clear gray eyes regarded Quentin unflinchingly. He was man enough for any monarch’s moods. “They are gone, Sire,” he related simply. “All are gone.”
“All? What do you mean all?”
“Everyone.”
Quentin stared sullenly at the man. “What are you babbling about? Send for them at once.”
“It may not be, my lord.”
“The Queen-where is she?”
“Her Highness and the dowager and the children have left Askelon, the Lady Esme with them. They ride for Dekra.”
“What?” He had not expected that answer. To Dekra? Why? “When did they leave?”
“Just before sunrise.”
Quentin struck the arm of the throne with his fist. While he had dawdled on the road, his wife had left the castle. If he had not stopped, if only he had ridden on to Askelon, he would have been here in time to detain her. She would not have gone if he were here.
“Where is the High Minister?” Quentin growled.
“He has disappeared, Your Majesty.”
Again an unexpected reply. “Eh?”
“He was last seen in attendance at the hermit’s funeral, Sire. After the burial he disappeared. He did not return to the castle. It is believed he slipped away from the procession on the way back to Askelon. No one has heard from or seen him since.”
Toli has disappeared? Well he might. If the Prince is not found, it would be better if he never returned.
Who else was left? “Theido and Ronsard-have they arrived?”
“They arrived, my lord, and immediately took responsibility for the search party for the Prince. They have gone.”
That was it, then. All were gone-those he needed most to see. He was alone.
The gnawing loneliness he had felt on the road was upon him once more. It was true: everyone he cared about was gone.
Here was a loneliness deeper than that of the temple. Then he had not known any different life, but now… He had not been so deserted in years. Every day he was surrounded by his closest friends and loved ones-every single day. He thought it would never end, that the closeness, the love would go on forever. But sadly he was wrong. In three short days-already it seemed a lifetime-his world had been shattered and the pieces scattered by some cruel fate. Nothing remained now of the happiness he had so recently possessed.
“Sire?”
Quentin stirred himself. The warder was looking at him strangely.
“I asked if that would be all, Sire.”
“Yes, that will be all. Go now. Leave me.” He heard the man’s steps diminish as Hagin left the hall. A door closed, and a boom rang in the silence like a pronouncement of doom.
There in the dim interior of his throne room, the King gave himself over to the hopelessness that assailed him, sinking deeper and still deeper beneath the crushing weight of despair.
With a round wooden bowl tucked between his knees, Toli sat on a woven grass mat outside the summer hut of Hoet. The Jher went about their daily business around him, but he was aware of their constant sidelong glances which told him that he was still very much in their minds. No one would ask him about what had happened last night as he stood before the fire unable to speak-that would be too impolite. Still, they would wonder, and the gentle Jher would watch him when they thought he was not looking. So Toli, aware of their scrutiny, pretended not to notice and slowly dipped his hand into the bowl for the sweet mulberries that were his breakfast.
A shadow fell over him as he squatted in the sunlight listening to the chirp and twitter of the early morning forest, the soft soughing of the upper branches in the breeze, drinking in the musty fragrance of earth and bark and growing things. Toli glanced up at the figure which had come to stand before him.
“You are leaving again,” Hoet observed.
Toli nodded. “I must.”
“I knew that you had not returned to stay. You are needed, for there is trouble in the land.”
Toli cocked an eye to the old chieftain. “You know about the white men’s trouble?”
“It is not only the trouble of the white race; when darkness falls, it covers all. Yes, we know there is trouble in the land. Wind is a swift messenger, and the forest holds no secrets from the Jher.”
“Then you know the King I serve needs your help. His son has been taken from him by force.”
Hoet nodded and leaned long on his staff before he spoke again. When at last he did, he replied, “And you carry the blame for this deed.”
Toli looked away. “How did you know?”
“How else can it be that you are not with your master in his time of need? He blames you, or you blame yourself, and that is why you ride alone.”
“Yes,” replied Toli softly. “Your wits are as sharp as your eyes, Wise One.”
“When you did not speak last night before the fire, I knew-though I guessed even when you came riding alone to our camp.”
“Then you knew why I could not speak.”
“Come with me,” said Hoet, and started away. Toli rose, set the bowl aside, and followed the aged Jher leader through the village among the trees. The glances of his kinsmen followed him as they walked the length of the camp to where Toli’s horse waited, already saddled, grazing in a clump of sweet clover at his feet.
“You do not belong here, Toli. Go now.” Toli felt the color rise to his face; his shame burned within him. “You are right to send me away. I have dishonored my people.”
“It is not from dishonor that I send you, my son,” said Hoet gently. Toli’s eyes darted to his elder. “Why does it surprise you? You have not turned away from your master-that would be dishonor. No, I send you for yourself. Go, my son, and find the white leader’s son. Your life will not be your own until you have found the boy.”
Toli smiled and gripped the old man’s arm. “Thank you, my father. The knife in my heart does not hurt s
o much now.”
“Yes, go. But come again one day, and we will sit together and share meat.”
Toli took up the tether peg and gripped the reins, swinging himself easily into the saddle. Riv snorted, eager to be off. “I will ride more swiftly with your blessing.”
“I have no blessing to give you that Whinoek has not already given.” Hoet paused, regarding the slim man before him. “It is said the King raises a temple to the One Most High.”
“Yes,” replied Toli. “The Father of Life is not widely known among the white race. My master seeks to make the name of the God Most High known to every man alive under the great heavens so that they may worship the only true god.”
“That is most worthy,” replied Hoet. “But it seems to this old one that where one temple stands, another may not also stand. Is this not true?”
Toli stared at his tribesman for a moment before the implication of what Hoet had said broke in on him. “Yes, your words are true, Wise One, and I would hear more.”
Hoet shrugged and lifted his antlered staff. “It has been reported to me that there has been much night traveling in the forest by men from the east, who also returned that way. I did not see them, so I cannot say how it is, but the white men’s great temple of Ariel lies to the east, does it not?”
“You know well that it does,” said Toli with a grin. “Thank you, my father. You have given your son a great blessing.” He turned Riv into the forest and stopped before entering the shaded trail to raise his hand in farewell.
Hoet raised his staff and said, “Go in peace.” He remained gazing into the forest long after Toli had disappeared, then turned and shuffled back into the Jher village.
TWENTY-FIVE
NIMROOD CACKLED with malicious glee at his good fortune as he flitted through the shadowy passageways of the High Temple like an overgrown bat, his black cloak billowing out behind him like wings. Such a stroke of luck! The gods had sent the meddlesome Jher to the very steps of the temple.
That ridiculous High Priest wanted to turn him away, thought Nimrood. Would have turned him away! But I was there to stop it, and before the dog could run away I had him bound and beaten and thrown into the cell with that mewling Prince! Ah ha! Ha, ha!
At first the sorcerer had to fight down the impulse to finish the deed begun in Pelgrin Forest on the day of the hunt-to strike down the Jher at once. Even now the old hatred fired his thin blood, but he was compelled by a greater prize to turn away from his long-nursed wrath at the one who had shorn him of his power, his precious magic, and had very nearly stripped him also of his life.
The image of that day still burned in Nimrood’s black brain: Durwin, a far inferior wizard, stood before him and would not even protect himself, would not lift a finger to summon the power at his call-not that it could have saved him. No, thought Nimrood, nothing could have saved him.
And then, as Nimrood lifted his rod to deliver the lethal bolt and so blast that cursed hermit’s bones to powder… that arrow! From out of nowhere it had come, striking deep into his flesh, sending the rod from his hand. Then, there was the Jher notching another arrow onto his bowstring. The sorcerer had pleaded for his life-those miserable pleas still echoed in his skull. “Don’t kill me!” he had screamed, and the words had mocked him every moment since that day. He had been humbled before the bow of the Jher, but the young warrior had withheld his pity, had sent another arrow into his enemy’s heart.
It has exhausted every last living spark of Nimrood’s power to transform himself into a raven and wing to safety. It was a long time before he could once again take mortal shape, for he had not even the magic left to change, but was forced to wait until the spell wore off of its own accord.
And a bitter exile it was, trapped in that feathered body, prey to the elements and living on scraps of dead, rotting meat. But though he regained but a thread of his former power-the rudiments of mere child’s dabbling still clung to him, the ability to make noise and light-yet he had returned to seek his revenge equipped with an older and more pernicious art: treachery.
The name of Nimrood the Necromancer had perhaps died from men’s memory; so be it. His lies would do what enchantment could not-of that he was certain. Yes, at long last he would have his revenge.
Oh, the gods were fickle and full of mischief! It took all one’s cunning to outsmart them. Nimrood had done it all his life. And now they had finally delivered the victory into his hand. Yes, oh, yes. Soon the upstart whelp of an acolyte king would suffer as he, Nimrood, had been made to suffer all these years.
Nimrood allowed himself one whoop of demented joy at the impending consummation of all his dreams. Yes, the Dragon King would fall; and that barbarous god of his, that brutish Most High, would fall with him.
The wizened old sorcerer clenched his fists and laughed out loud, throwing his head back and letting the sound pour forth from his wicked throat. It was a sound to chill the marrow of anyone passing by. But no one heard it; he was alone and savored the moment to the full, his black heart lifted in exultation.
Pym stood before the sign of the Gray Goose, a strolling heap of scrap metal and tools, bags and bundles and barter enough for any two tinkers. The hand-painted sign of a long-legged, long-necked plump gray goose wobbled on its chain, the windows of the inn dark now, the door open, but silence within.
“Tinker!” he cried. “Tinker, ma’am!”
He waited, winking at Tip. The dog winked back with both eyes.
In a moment he heard footsteps coming toward him across the planked floor. Then appeared a round, flushed face and the plump form of Emm, the innkeeper’s wife. She waved her apron when she saw him, exclaiming, “Pym! You are a sight, you are! Come around again, have you? Give me a hug.”
She threw her arms around him, and he around her. They were old friends and good ones. “It’s good t’ see ye, Emm. You know me-I been afancy for one of yer meat pasties and a noggin o’ yer best. We ‘uns jest had t’ come back soon’s we ‘uns finished away south.”
“You missed Emm’s cooking, eh? Well, come in, come in with you. We’ll set a fork and trencher at the board and put you to it.”
Pym followed the matron inside, rattling like a calf in a cupboard with every step. “Milcher!” she called. “Otho! We got us a guest. Look lively, now!”
Milcher poked his round bald head out from behind a cask he was rolling across the room. “Oh ho! Pym it is! Oh ho! Pym, good to see you, old friend. Come to visit, eh? Glad to have you. Glad to have you!” He called over his shoulder, “Otho! Hurry up now! We have a guest!”
A tall boyish-faced man came into the room carrying two small kegs under each arm. He grinned at the tinker and put the kegs down, then went to the cask his father was straining at. With ease the overgrown Otho hefted the cask into place. “Pym and Tipper is it?” He grinned boyishly.
Milcher wiped his sweating face on his sleeve. “Whew! I’ve been at it since dawn this morn.” He shook his friend’s hand. “Come and sit down with me. We’ll drink a sip and fill our bellies.”
“Don’t you ‘uns trouble yerselfs fer we,” said Pym. Tip wagged her tail amiably, knowing that this was the place where she received those juicy titbits and gristly beef bones. She barked once in anticipation of such a morsel.
“Yes, Tip,” laughed Otho, stooping to pat the dog. “We won’t forget you. Good old girl.”
Pym threw off his implements and wares and trundled them into a corner. He sat down with the innkeeper, and Emm served them up a little stew and bread. Otho fetched frothy ale in crockery jars and joined them.
They talked of all that had happened since Pym’s last visit, and all the customers who would need Pym’s services. Before long, however, their conversation turned to the one subject on everyone’s minds and on the tips of everyone’s tongues in every gathering place in Askelon.
“Shocking!” said Emm, clucking her tongue. “Simply shocking. I can’t imagine who would want to harm that beautiful boy, poor Prince Gerin!”
They all shook their heads in bewilderment at the affairs that had befallen their King. “You were on the road,” continued Milcher. “Did you see anything?”
Pym merely shrugged. “ ‘Pears I come too late.” He was of half a mind to tell them about the dead man in the road, and about the sword. But even though they were his friends, he thought better of it and kept that part secret. “ ‘Twas over before we ‘uns got to Pelgrin, tho a’ course we met lots abodies on the road to tell ‘t.”
“Oh, there’s talk aplenty, there is,” agreed Milcher. “Most of it not worth a thimble o’ mud. They say it was the Harriers got the boy Prince. Others say it was some of that swill-belly Nin’s cravens who’ve been hiding up in the mountains all these years. Bah! That lot was driven into the sea at lancepoint-every last one of ‘em.”
“Strange though how nobody has seen hand nor hair of them that took him. Tis very like the earth opened up and swallowed them whole, quick as you please. Nobody seen nothing,” said Otho.
“I saw the King,” volunteered Pym. “This mornin’ on the road. Least I thought ‘twas the King. Looked a King t’ me.”
“Likely did. Likely did,” said Milcher, slapping the board with his hand. “Ham the butcher says the King rode in this morning all alather. Been riding like a wraith for days.”
“Did he have his sword when you saw him?” Otho asked Pym.
“What a question!” Milcher cried. “Of course he did. The Dragon King never goes anywhere without that sword. That’s what makes him invincible.”
Otho did not back down. “That’s not what I heard.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table so no one would overhear him, though there was no one else in the place. “I heard from Glenna, the Queen’s maidservant-”
“Glenna’s his sweetheart,” put in Otho’s mother, smiling a knowing smile. “Works in the royal kitchen.”
Otho threw a warning glance in her direction but hurried on. “-that there’s talk in the castle that the King has lost his sword!”
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