Ashar shuddered. The evil countenance of Drakkor was clear in his mind’s eye. In that moment he knew the day would come when he would stand face-to-face with him again.
“But I am just a boy,” he said.
“Many years ago, I sent Blessed Sage Granswaan to gather the missing stones of light. For many seasons, he sent us word of his progress. They were hopeful and informative words, but his writings were without detail lest a dispatch fall into the hands of villainous men. His last message, brought by a pilgrim who had seen him in the village, was a cryptic communiqué that left me certain he had found some of the missing stones.”
Ashar’s eyes brightened, but only for an instant.
“Then he vanished, and I’ve have had no word of him. I fear he is dead. I called him to the task, believing he was ‘the one,’ but it was a decision of the mind and not the spirit. I was mistaken. My vanity blinded me.” The Oracle placed a hand on Ashar’s shoulder and held his eyes. “Now the task has fallen to you.”
Ashar trembled.
“You must never allow the stones to be gathered in the hand of one deceived by that darkness. In depriving evil, you will save the world from the greatest of all calamities: an immortal man controlled by the forces of darkness with the power of renewal and endless life.”
Ashar paced the garden like a caged lion. “I have lived on the mountain since I was a child. I am ignorant of everything beyond the walls of the temple. The ways of the world are unknown to me except from books and the teachings of the enlightened masters. How is it possible that I should be the one who—”
“You are of the blood of the Navigator! That knowledge came to you for a purpose. I believe you are the fulfillment of the prophecy recorded in the Codices of the Navigator.” He paraphrased the familiar passage. “When the ancient evil is come again, that which was lost shall be found and gathered in the righteous hand by the child of pure blood, by the strength of a sword he cannot hold, endowed with the powers of godliness, and returned to the crown of endless life. And in that day, the kingdom of light will come again.”
Ashar could feel the Oracle’s eyes looking into his soul.
“I believe that you, Ashar, son of Shalatar, are the child of pure blood.”
The Oracle wrapped the stones in the bundle of fur and slipped them inside the satchel around Ashar’s neck.
“From this day, you are the keeper of the sacred stones of light.”
“I am but a boy!”
“In this hour, the God of gods has made of you a man.” The Oracle leveled his eyes with Ashar’s and took the young man’s hands in his. “There is no one else.”
In the same way the knowledge of his lost lineage had presented itself as he stood before the Council of Blessed Sages, the words of the Oracle entered his mind on a beam of light, and he knew the words were true. He had no understanding of what it meant, but he felt the blood of his ancestors coursing through his veins and the spirit of the Navigator surging through his being.
“You must find Blessed Sage Granswaan, if he is yet alive,” the Oracle said. “If he is alive, he will join you. If he is not, perhaps he left a clue behind. He most surely knew that someone would eventually come looking for him. The kingdom of light cannot come again until all the stones are returned to the Immortal Crown. Do you understand why?”
Ashar spoke before this thoughts were fully formed.
“The shining stones remind us that the finger of God can touch our hearts and minds, fill our lives with light, and enable us to believe in things not seen.” It was not the recitation of a postulant. It came from a light within illuminating his understanding.
“Even the most devoted feel a need for something to touch—the sacred relics. Or smell—the burning incense. Or adorn—our robes and vestments.” He was startled by the words flowing from his lips as if he were a Blessed Sage.
The Oracle smiled and nodded. “Our finite minds crave reconciliation with the infinite. The stones of light help us across that chasm. They allow us to soar as if carried by the winged spirits of God. The stones of light are a miracle beyond our understanding. The finger of God has touched you here.” The Oracle’s fingers tapped gently over Ashar’s heart as he pushed himself to his feet. “With this man of evil and his army occupying the holy mountain, there is grave danger that the order of Oum’ilah will never rise again. It might even vanish from the earth unless you are successful. I know it is a great thing I ask of you.” He paused. “That Oum’ilah, the God of gods and Creator of All Things asks of you.”
The gravity of it had not left Ashar’s mind. “You expect me to combat evil and find the stones and face the Blood of the Dragon, but . . .” He took a deep breath and crossed the boundaries. “You performed the ritual of endless life! If he cannot die, he has no fear of death. How can I stand against such a man?”
To Ashar’s surprise, the Oracle smiled as if the answer was as light as a hummingbird. “Perhaps I should be ashamed of this, but . . . I lied to the liar in the hope we might escape his fiendish intent. I have deceived him, but he shall discover it soon enough.”
“You mean you didn’t . . . ?”
“I recited a poem in the ancient tongue. Did you not wonder why there was no shining?”
“But the wound in his hand, and the light . . .”
“The healing and the shining was through me. The stone was in my hand, thanks to your quick thinking.”
Ashar blushed with a rush of pride.
“May the guilt of it be smothered in the mercy of the God of gods.” Not the slightest twinge of guilt was present in his voice. “Our one hope is that the power of the stones requires that all be gathered in the hand of righteousness and returned to the Immortal Crown.”
Ashar remembered something the Oracle had said to Drakkor in the court. He flushed at the thought of asking the question lest the Oracle misunderstand, but he gathered his courage.
“Is it true that only those with the blood of the Navigator may be consecrated to endless life?” It was a question of curiosity. A question that frightened him.
The Oracle’s smile came slowly. “Some of the Blessed Sages believe that the blood lineage matters. Others believe that nothing more is required except that the stones be gathered in a single hand. Yet the stones have not been in one place or in one hand since they were stolen from the Immortal Crown many centuries ago and lost. So I do not know.”
“Were there any given immortality who might still be among us?”
The Oracle closed his eyes as if listening to a voice that Ashar couldn’t hear, yet in the long silence, Ashar heard the answer, “Yes.”
“Will you guide me in this holy quest?”
The Oracle shook his head.
“I cannot do what you ask of me without your guidance,” Ashar said.
“My time has ended, and I must prepare to go the way of all the earth.”
“No! You must never leave us. If I am truly the one of pure blood, as you believe, I will not rest until I gather the stones of light and bring them to you so you will never die.”
Ashar saw affection in the Oracle’s smiling eyes. “The prophecy is hopeful but only predicts what may be, not what will be. The gates of iniquity are wide, and the jaws of the dark world gape open. Drakkor will destroy all who oppose him in his quest, but the prophecy he follows is corrupted. He does not know that the endowment of endless life is only possible when all thirteen stones of light are returned to the Immortal Crown, each according to its proper place about the god stone.”
“And what of the Immortal Crown? Is it also lost?”
“For now, yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Hidden in a secret place inside the temple.”
“Where the man of evil now walks in blasphemy,” Ashar whispered.
There was a long silence between them. Then Ashar clenched his jaw a
nd lifted his chin as courage flowed into him. “I will find Sage Granswaan, if he is yet alive, or learn what he discovered, if he is not. I will go wherever the stones of light may lead me. I will find the ancient shrines, if that is where the sacred stones are hidden, be they north or south or a place unknown, and I will unravel the riddle of the Immortal Crown. I swear by the God of gods I will do all that you have asked of me, or die in the quest.”
“Dying is not your destiny.” The Oracle turned as if listening to a voice that Ashar could not hear. The old priest inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. His lips quivered in a faint smile as he turned again to Ashar. “You must trust nothing until it is confirmed by the quiet voice that speaks in your heart. There is something here to give you hope.” The Oracle turned to the thin sheets of hammered brass in the ring-bound codices on the table. “Can you repeat the words of the prophecy?”
“Much of it, but you have spoken many words that I’ve not heard before.”
The Oracle turned the book toward Ashar. “Read from here.” He pointed to a spot on the page.
Ashar searched the Oracle’s face, then looked down and began to read. “‘That which was lost shall be found, to be gathered in the righteous hand, by the child of pure blood by the strength of a sword he cannot hold—’”
“There!” The Oracle tapped the page with a slender finger.
Ashar shrugged. “I have not the strength to hold a sword, nor the skill.”
“Again,” the Oracle said. “Just there.”
“‘By the strength of the sword he cannot hold.’” Ashar read the words again.
“I have read this many times, but not until this moment have I understood. It is not you who shall hold the sword that will protect you from evil. There is another called to such a purpose.”
“Who?”
“In the day you need the sword, you shall know, and so shall he.”
CHAPTER 54
Qhuin felt the sound before he heard it. It reverberated from the walls of the narrow canyon like a rolling wave of thunder before the sky exploded. Everyone could hear it, but no one knew what it was. A fearsome roar shattered by a piercing scream. The mares erupted in a frenzy of hooves hammering heavily over rock.
The chestnut whirled toward the sound and fought the triangle of ropes that held her in place. The muscles beneath her reddish hide quivered with expectation. A pounding crescendo raced toward them. The herd of wild mares parted.
An enormous stallion burst from the twilight shadows of the canyon wall and plunged down the escarpment toward them.
He was the most magnificent horse Qhuin had ever seen. More majestic even than the great warhorses of legend. He was the color of smoke with a speckling of gray. His muzzle was black and matched the mask across his eyes. The mane and tail were black and rippled in the wind like a banderole streaming into battle.
His head was perfectly shaped, and the elegant arc of his neck flowed into heavily muscled shoulders. His black eyes were alert and all-knowing. His legs were long with large hooves and fetlocks covered with silken hair the color of night.
The colossal stallion charged forward, splitting the herd and hurtling toward the captive chestnut mare with all his power.
Qhuin watched the magnificent beast in awe and admiration. Was it possible the idea in his head was true? He mouthed the word that would not leave his mind: “Equus.”
There was no time to think. The great horse had erupted from the shadows into being. By the time Kadesh-Cor and the men holding the chestnut comprehended what was happening, it was too late. Jewuul whirled as the stallion approached but clung to the rope on the chestnut with determined courage. Obedience overpowered instinct. He tried to avoid the gnashing teeth and pounding hooves, but was confined by the length of hemp and could not escape.
The stallion smashed into the reinsman and knocked him down.
Jewuul tried to crawl away, but the horse turned back and trampled him.
Qhuin grabbed the lasso-pole from Sargon and ran toward the chaos. The stallion whirled toward the prince. Jehu hurled his coil of hemp in an effort to turn the horse. It struck the stallion’s muzzle with no effect. With two of the ropes hanging lose, the mare bolted.
Kadesh-Cor was jerked forward and pulled to the ground. He fumbled with the rope wrapped around his waist as he tumbled in a spiral at the end of the pole. The chestnut dragged him over the broken ground.
When he finally unraveled the rope, he tumbled to a stop in a heap of dust and blood. The stallion ran over him. A hoof struck his ribs with a crack. Another struck him in the face, ripping flesh from his cheek. The stallion pranced a tight circle and turned back to trample the creature that threatened his harem of mares.
In pain and barely conscious, Kadesh-Cor scrambled backward on all fours like a wounded crab escaping a voracious bird. A ribbon of red flowed down his face.
Sargon watched in horror, petrified by fear. Qhuin leaped over the prince and faced the wild stallion with both hands raised. He spoke to him in the special language he had for horses. Urgent. Soothing.
The stallion thrashed his head, but enraptured by the soft voice and strange words, he halted his advance. His silk forelock swayed over his forehead. The stallion was clearly puzzled by the creature facing him with nothing but a piece of pole and a ragged length of hemp.
Time slowed. Qhuin felt as if there were only two creatures on the earth, and he was one of them. Is this the horse of legend or a beast of flesh and blood? A torrent of impressions passed through his mind in the space of a heart beat. If one man could not hold the chestnut, this horse will drag me to the end of the Oodanga Wilds.
The stallion surged forward with deadly intent. Qhuin returned to the moment. He cracked the stallion on the nose with the pole and yelled, “Pace o’ a nona equis.”
The stallion skidded to a stop. Gusts of steaming vapor burst from his nostrils. His hooves pounded the ground.
Qhuin lunged toward the prince, Jehu rushing to join him. Kadesh-Cor lost consciousness and crumpled to the ground. Qhuin and Jehu gathered him up and half dragged, half carried him behind a mound of rock, safely away from the thrashing horse.
Qhuin watched the stallion. What he saw would never be forgotten and not easily believed.
The stallion ran after the chestnut and used his teeth to rip the nooses of hemp and pole away. He ran a wide circle around the mares until they ran with him, a spinning cyclone of dust and thunder.
Then the stallion turned up the rocky slope the way he had come. The herd of horses followed.
Had they escaped into an unseen cleft in the face of the cliff or been swallowed in the shadows? It was difficult to see in the darkness. The mystery would mingle with the myth, and the legend of Equus would endure.
A heavy silence fell over the vale. The horses of the Oodanga Wilds had vanished.
CHAPTER 62
Kingsrider Captain Ilióss Machous watched from the shadows of thick timber on a ridge above the river. Nine horses stood knee-deep in the shallow water at the edge of the river, their muzzles submerged. A froth of lathered sweat smeared their dusty hides. They had been ridden hard. Seven of the nine horsemen were on their bellies with their faces in the water. The other two had quenched their thirst and were filling goatskin flasks.
Machous’s promise to the king sounded in his head. I will savor the stench of his blood when it flows from his neck and soaks into the dirt. He could not return to Kingsgate without the head of Drakkor. Nor will I! The surge of will brought new resolve, but the men at the river’s edge were not who he expected.
“There are only nine of them!” Machous scolded the young officer who sat astride a short-legged horse beside him.
“The informant at the tavern told us there were fifty.” The man blanched at his misjudgment.
The sun had fallen behind the Mountains of Mordan. In the dusky light, and at th
e distance, it was difficult to identify the men at the river by their dress or weapons. They were clad in an odd mix of leather and cloth, and all of them were armed. Iron armor was tied to the saddles.
Stolen? Machous wondered.
The men did not appear to be bandits, at least not by any description given of the brigands he had heard. Could they be soldiers from the secret militias of the great houses? Private armies were forbidden by the king, but everyone knew they existed. Why are they here? And why on the run?
Machous exhaled his irritation over the wasted days, but it was not the first time he had followed the wrong trail. Getting lost on a wild pig chase was inevitable when searching for a man as clever and ruthless as Drakkor.
Machous had heard the report of Drakkor’s horrific attack on the temple of Oum’ilah. A pilgrim had sworn that Drakkor’s army had taken it as a stronghold, but the pilgrim had been wrong.
The temple was abandoned when Machous and his men arrived. The holy places had been ransacked and defaced, but the massive walls that had stood a thousand years were unchanged. There were no people on the mountain except for a few old men, a huddle of refugees, and pilgrims who had come to bury the dead. The crawling green of living things had already begun to creep through the cracks between the stones.
There was an outrageous rumor that Drakkor and his bandits had been driven out by an infestation of wild bees. Machous found the story more humorous than plausible. If Drakkor left the mountain stronghold, it was not because of bees. More likely, the bandit king had heard that a king’s commander, renowned for his courage, was looking for him with a double march of kingsriders, and he was afraid.
Machous had no illusion that Drakkor did not know he was coming. It was not possible for an army of kingsriders to move without tongues wagging in every tavern, town, and market from the boroughs of Wug to the caves of Aktodas. Drakkor was no fool. Clearly he was ill-prepared to meet such a formidable force, and he had fled in order to take the inevitable fight to a place of his choosing.
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