A wild pig chase. Machous shook his head. How much time had they wasted in their cautious ascent to the temple of Oum’ilah? No matter. Relentless pursuit was the way of the warrior, and he knew he would find Drakkor.
The men at the river must be an advance scouting party. Even the cleverest of men could not move with an army of mercenaries and traitors without leaving a wide swath of evidence and rumors behind. Somewhere there was someone who knew where Drakkor and his army were. When they’d passed. The direction they were traveling. Where they camped. The location of their hiding place.
Where was the person who knew? The informant who would tell? Was it the man huddled in the dark corner of the tavern? The wench looking for some extra coin? A village blacksmith constrained to shoe their horses? The farmer in the field, or the peasant on the road, or the merchant awakened in the night to fill their flasks and baskets?
Even if he found an informant, Machous knew he would still have to make him talk. Few of the lowborn and oppressed trusted a kingsrider captain bearing the sigil of Kublan. To many of them, Drakkor was a hero. Anyone, however villainous, with the courage to defy the tyranny of kings was a champion of the common folk.
Machous left no stone unturned or rumor unexplored. Mistaken information, ignorant peasants, and brazen lies were unavoidable, but they only needed one person who knew. Loyalty was more like the sands of the desert than the rocks of the mountain. It drifted in the wind and wrapped itself about whichever boot trod upon it.
Machous also knew that secrets were hardest kept when a man’s head was soaked with ale, so he had given his men leave to frequent the bawdy houses, inns, and taverns in search of the one who knew and would tell. He gave them coin enough to keep drinking until late into the morning.
“How drunk was the sot who gave you the information?” Machous knew the answer, but asked anyway. He remembered the man who slurred his words and punctuated every sentence with another quaff, drizzling frothy ale into his scruffy beard.
The young officer recounted his conversation at the Inn of the Purple Serpent. “The drink loosened his tongue, and he swore he saw a band of outlaws riding hard for the Mountains of Mordan. He told me they rode like demons were snapping at their hooves.”
“And he was certain they were bandits?”
“‘As dark and dangerous men as I’ve ever seen’—his exact words, Captain.”
“For another tankard of ale.” Machous scoffed.
“Yes, Captain.”
“So are we chasing bandits or the blubbering imaginings of a drunk who bamboozled a kingsrider?”
The officer fought to keep his face from flushing red.
As he looked down on the men at the river, Machous hoped he had made the right decision. He trusted his instincts, but he was chasing a rumor and had ridden a long way. Most of his double march of kingsriders had been left behind to bivouac on Sniggle Creek near Village Mordan.
Machous reasoned the men he followed would stay in the mountains and cross the Turskín River somewhere above the falls. From there they could vanish into the vast and largely unexplored Plains of Loonish, where it would be nearly impossible to find them again.
To flank his quarry, Machous had left the winding trails of the mountains and led his force of fifty men along the road that ran below the foothills on the north.
Machous twisted in his saddle, trying to relieve the ache in his lower back. The men at the river were disagreeing about something, or so it seemed from the distance. Only one of them was mounted. The others stood in a ragged circle, arguing. One of them pointed to the sky and then to the east as though deciding whether to set up camp at the water or risk being caught by darkness. They did not appear to be bandits, but something about them teased at Machous as he tried to connect the pieces.
“Your orders, Captain?” The young officer gestured to kingsriders who waited in a shallow valley on the west side of the ridge.
Machous narrowed his eyes to pierce the gathering gloom. No stone unturned.
“Take them alive,” he said.
CHAPTER 55
“Fly from the cliff?” Ashar stared at the Oracle with wide, unblinking eyes. “Is that what is written?”
“‘Carried by faith on the winged spirits of God.’” The Oracle traced the markings incised on a sheet of hammered brass as he read from the codices of the Navigator.
“I don’t remember reading that,” Ashar said. “Are you certain of the meaning?” He tried to moisten his lips, but his tongue was dry. “You are sure”—he could hardly say it—“that I must leap from the mountain’s edge to prove my faith?”
Ashar and the Oracle spent long hours together in the wild garden. Ashar listened and learned.
The Oracle’s words filled his head like light filling a darkened room. As he walked with the Oracle to the north side of the monolith, he caught a glimpse of the guardians of the hallowed fane. They wore curious habiliments, unlike anything he had seen in the temple below. He found it curious that none of them seemed to notice him or the Oracle as they made their way across the flat stones of the summit.
By the time they stood at the precipice, clouds had formed and the bright morning had faded. The sun was a glowing orb diffused in a swirl of mist.
“It is written that the powers of the stones are wrought by heart and mind. Believe in your heart. Desire in your mind. Abandon yourself to your faith. You have heard the voice and felt it in your heart.”
Ashar’s face paled. “We are taught to believe beyond our doubts, but . . .” His voice trembled. “How do I know it’s a promise from the God of gods? What if you are mistaken—” He caught himself. “What if I am not the one you imagine me to be?”
The Oracle raised his grizzled eyebrows. “There is no time left, and there is no other.”
“But is”—he could hardly say the word—“flying from the mountain the only way?”
“The winged spirits of God will carry you.”
Ashar was filled with fear; his faith had fled. He glanced about, hoping to see the legendary messengers of heaven, even knowing he wouldn’t. He asked the question he knew he shouldn’t. “Have you ever been carried by the winged spirits of God?”
The Oracle tapped his finger on the ancient record. “Real is a relative concept when dealing with our eternal nature and dimensions of endless time. The winged spirits of God are as real as your faith in things unseen.”
“Pray, forgive me honored master, but my fear of things unseen leaves little room for faith to fly.” His face pinched tight at the thought of it.
“Such feelings and fears are not unexpected. You have only begun your quest, and your burden is great.” The Oracle’s eyes drifted away with memory. What came next was deeply personal. A confession? Ashar had clear impression the Oracle had faced his own extreme test of faith and gained an understanding not easily explained.
“If you find the courage to vanquish your fear of death, if you conquer your doubts with conviction, if you embrace the destiny to which you are called and surrender yourself—body, mind, and spirit—to trust in the God of gods, and the powers He has given us, you will be endowed with a force and faculty you cannot comprehend.”
In spite of his trepidations, Ashar knew he must face his destiny, however grave or fearsome. He knew he must take that first bold step on the dangerous odyssey before him.
“First bold step” was a familiar cliché among the postulants, but it took on a whole new meaning for Ashar as he shuffled forward, taking care to keep his balance. He settled one foot on solid stone before advancing the other. His steps grew smaller as he approached the rim. When he finally arrived, he leaned forward and looked over the edge. There were no clouds blocking his view of the river. It was a thread of silver in a sea of emerald shadows two thousand cubitums below.
The muscles in his stomach tightened and his legs quavered. Was the
Oracle’s outrageous instruction to step from the cliff only because the path was blocked by Drakkor’s men? Or is it a test of faith I must endure if I am to succeed? Master Doyan’s voice spoke in his memory: “Enlightenment requires the courage to face your greatest fears.”
Ashar felt nauseous as he stared into the void and certain death. Fear gripped his gut with a burning fist. His extreme and irrational fear of heights made him dizzy. He stumbled backward and fell at the Oracle’s feet.
“I can’t,” he muttered.
“You carry the stones of light touched by the finger of God. The blood of the Navigator flows in your veins.” The Oracle touched Ashar’s head and then his heart. “It is here and here that a man is empowered for good or ill. In your hands, the stones of light are a force for good you cannot comprehend.”
Ashar tightened his grip on the satchel and pulled it closer to his heart as the Oracle helped him to his feet. His fingers settled over the lumps beneath the leather to confirm the presence of the stones. They were all there. He experienced a sudden rush of confidence.
“Does one of these stones hold dominion over the earth? The power to fly?”
The Oracle looked at him with furrowed brows but didn’t respond. The answer was clear. He didn’t know.
Ashar turned his eyes from the Oracle back to the edge of the rock. This time there was no shuffle in his stride. He reached the edge and looked at the river again. A filter of thin clouds slipped by beneath him. The sky opened above, and the sun felt hot on the back of his neck. Light entered his mind, and he felt a strange desire to fly.
The Oracle put his arms around Ashar and held him close. He whispered in his ear, “Fear and faith cannot abide. The God of gods is with you.”
Ashar was surprised, but as the Oracle’s arms tightened around him, he returned the embrace and wept. It was the first time he’d been shown such tangible love since the day his stepfather had taken him from his mother’s arms.
“Remain here and stay well until I return with the Immortal Crown and all the stones,” Ashar said.
He retreated half a stone’s throw from the precipice, then ran as fast as he was able and leaped into the swirl of clouds that had gathered again at the top of the Mountain of God—the sign that He was there.
CHAPTER 56
Confusion reigned in the darkness following the appearance of the mystical stallion and the disappearance of the horses. The prince was unconscious, his face ripped open, and Jewuul was dead. A damp coldness enveloped the canyon. It was too dark to see, and the encampment was more than a league away.
Qhuin made a torch from strips of cloth torn from his tunic and a smear of lard from the lubricated chamber of the chariot’s hub. He held the flame low over Kadesh-Cor, who lay unconscious on the ground. The fire cast a ghoulish yellow-orange light onto the anxious faces of the men who surrounded the badly injured prince. There was something oddly disconcerting about seeing the prince at the edge of death. He bled like an ordinary man, and his exalted rank no longer seemed important. If he died, the mighty Baron Magnus of Blackthorn and prince of the North would be nothing but a box of bones. The memory of him no more than a name chiseled into a rock and soon forgotten.
Qhuin watched as Horsemaster Raahud staunched the flow of blood from the gash on Kadesh-Cor’s face with skill and confidence and replaced the flap of skin the best he could. He bound the wound with a wad of wool and a strap of leather.
The prince never moved.
Raahud held his ear close to Prince Kadesh-Cor’s nose to measure the depth of his breathing. He nodded slowly, but his face was grim. “We must get him to camp immediately. He must be purified and sewn at once.”
“By who?” Sargon blurted. “No one is allowed to touch him but the royal surgeon.”
“He will not last the night if we do not get him back and sew the wounds.” Raahud rubbed his nose with the back of a bloody hand as he stood. “The prince will ride in the chariot with . . . Jewuul.” He paused to look at his dead friend, his face broken with sorrow. “Wrap his body with your cloak,” he said to Chor’s reinsman. “Qhuin is the best of the drivers, so he will drive the whites with the prince and—”
“Who are you to give us orders, Horsemaster?” Sargon demanded as he shouldered past his brother.
“Your pardon, m’lord. I didn’t mean to—”
Sargon cut him off. “My father is not going to ride in a chariot with a dead man. Leave the body of the hireling.” His tone made it clear he considered Jewuul of no importance.
A murmur swept through the company.
“With respect, m’lord,” Horsemaster Raahud said, “we cannot leave him. The rats will clean him to the bone by morning, and I’m sure your lord father—”
Sargon cut him off again, louder this time. Disdainful. “My lord father is insentient, and though we pray to the gods he shall recover, my brother and I—” He straightened slightly and narrowed his eyes as he sought the right words. “It is we who now preside as your sovereign lords.” His face brightened at the sound of his own words, delivered with a sense of pride and power. His eyes glistened. He was ten feet tall with a crown on his head.
“By the gods, shut your mouth, brother, or I shall stuff it full of bloody rags!” Chor snapped. The disgust on his older brother’s face shrank Sargon back to normal size.
Chor turned to his reinsman. “Do as Raahud says. Wrap the poor lad’s body and put him in the chariot with our lord father, and do it swiftly.”
“But—” Sargon’s protest was cut short by Horsemaster Raahud, who nodded respectfully to Chor while making no effort to hide the smile at the edge of his lips.
“Move swiftly,” he said to his men. Turning to Chor, he said, “Thank you, m’lord.” Baaly and two of the Huszárs hurried to the fallen reinsman while others of the company shuffled about, but none dared touch the prince.
“Wait!” Sargon held up a hand and shouted at the reinsman. The urgency of his demand cut a hole in the din. He took a long, slow breath and bowed to his brother, bending low with outstretched arms in an exaggerated gesture of feigned respect. “Lord Chor, your greatness, if I may?” His words oozed with sarcasm. “I say we camp here for the night. Better our lord father rest than be shaken to his death on this rutted field. The horses will be unable to climb the rocks in this darkness. The chariot will be lost, and, as eager as you are to become Baron Magnus of Blackthorn, I do not think we should hasten the death of our lord father. Do you, brother?”
“He must be purified and sewn immediately, m’lord,” Horsemaster Raahud repeated. “He cannot wait.”
Chor scooped his hands beneath his father’s shoulders. “Stop acting like an imbecile, Sargon, and help me put him into the chariot.”
The flush on Sargon’s cheek was visible even in the flicker of firelight. He stood motionless while Raahud, Chor, and three of the Huszárs lifted the prince. They followed Qhuin to the chariot. The shrouded body of the dead reinsman was placed on the footboard.
“We will never find our way up the cliff,” Sargon moaned. His arrogance thinned to the whine of a child.
“The horses will lead us,” Qhuin said. “They can see in the dark.”
“That’s a myth, you ignorant fool,” Sargon said, but everyone ignored him.
Qhuin stepped into the chariot and handed the torch to Jehu. “Form a column behind the chariot. Take hold of the person in front of you, and we’ll all make it fine.” He looked to Chor for affirmation that he had not overstepped his bounds. The older princeling nodded.
Sargon approached the chariot and was about to step in when Qhuin stopped him. “You’ll need to walk, m’lord. We’re already heavier than we ought be for the grade.”
A tidal wave of animosity crashed upon the rocks of Sargon’s ego. He glared at Qhuin.
Qhuin held the look but shuddered at the promise of retribution so clearly burning in the
princeling’s eyes.
The milk-whites were the only ones that didn’t falter or stumble on the climb from the canyon. Horsemaster Raahud helped Baaly, whose wounded leg made it difficult for him to climb. Sargon slipped and fell three times. Chor gripped his arm to help him, but the younger brother pulled away.
Once they were out of the canyon, Kadesh-Cor was moved from Qhuin’s hunting chariot to the larger quadriga, where he was bedded on a cushion of harness pads taken from the other teams.
Qhuin was right about the horses—they could see things in the dark that men could not—and the crossing of the Tallgrass Prairie was without incident.
Sargon rode with his father in the quadriga. Qhuin felt the princeling’s eyes on him even in the darkness. He knew better than to hope his subtle threat would dissuade Sargon once the princeling was surrounded by the kingsriders and Huszárs. He prepared himself for the worst.
The hunters’ return with the injured prince consumed the attention of the camp. Qhuin, Chor, and Horsemaster Raahud carried Kadesh-Cor from the chariot to the entrance of the royal tent with the help of a young kingsrider who cast his helm aside and assisted without a command from his captain.
Prince Kadesh-Cor’s hunting dogs ran from the tent to sniff and prod and lick their master’s hands. Horsemaster Raahud scolded them away, but they would not retreat. A kingsrider gripped them by their collars and pulled them away. Their howls of protest dwindled to a mournful whimper, which added to the fear encircling the camp.
Qhuin looked for Sargon; he had not seen him since they arrived at the edge of the encampment. He had expressed such grave concern in the canyon that Qhuin was surprised he was not hovering over his injured father and barking commands.
“Which of you can attend to wounds?” Horsemaster Raahud asked the gathered crowd in a loud and urgent voice.
“Speak up,” Chor commanded, lest none dare respond to Raahud in the presence of the princeling. There was silence.
The Immortal Crown Page 40