Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  Gulph stared blankly at him. Had Nynus come to his senses at last? It hardly seemed possible.

  “I don’t?” he said.

  “No.” Nynus laughed. “I think I’ll just kick her over the edge.”

  Gulph grabbed Limmoni protectively. “You can’t do that,” he said.

  “He is the king,” said Magritt. “He can do whatever he chooses.” Beside her, Nynus grinned and tensed his legs. “But . . . I have a better idea.”

  Nynus scowled. “You do? But she’s a wizard. Don’t you think we should punish her?”

  “Of course, my dear. But wizards can be useful.”

  Magritt gestured toward the two remaining fingers of rock, each pointing at the other from opposite sides of the chasm.

  “The gap is wide, but not wide enough. I suggest we keep our wizard somewhere safe until she wakes. With her magic, the task of destroying the rest of the bridge will be an easy one.”

  Beneath his parasol, Nynus giggled.

  Gulph eyed first the queen, then her son. Any regard he’d had for them had long since vanished. Now he saw them for what they truly were: monsters.

  “Somewhere safe?” Gulph said. “What do you mean?”

  Magritt smiled down at him.

  “Why, the Vault of Heaven, of course.”

  • • •

  Thick clouds hid the moon and stars, except for a tiny gap hovering directly above the city. No matter how the clouds moved, this gap remained. Through it, Gulph could clearly see the three prophecy stars. They seemed to beckon him.

  Standing in the darkness, Gulph prepared to do something he’d never imagined he would attempt.

  Break back into the Vault of Heaven.

  He flexed his muscles, preparing to make the arduous climb up one of the Vault’s stilt-like legs. He’d thought he was sure of this, but the risk was huge. If he was caught, Nynus would do more than plunge Gulph’s hands into a brazier.

  As Limmoni had been dragged away from the half-demolished bridge, Gulph had felt Magritt’s gaze burning the back of his neck. And Nynus had been cool toward him for the rest of the day. In defending Limmoni, had he gone too far?

  Then he thought of Limmoni lying cold and alone in the Black Cell.

  His choice was clear.

  She helped me. Now I’ve got to help her.

  The climb was just as difficult as he’d imagined. The wooden stilt was slippery, and twisted as it ascended. Only Gulph’s extraordinary flexibility allowed him to reach the few handholds there were. When he reached the top, he compressed his shoulders and hips to an unnatural degree and squeezed his agile body through a tiny crack in the prison wall.

  I suppose being deformed isn’t always a bad thing, he thought.

  Once inside, he paused, catching his breath. It was just as he remembered: dark, stinking, echoing with the wretched screams of the inmates. It sounded as if there were more prisoners here than before. No wonder: Lately Nynus had made a hobby of sentencing people to a stretch in the Vault for even the most minor crimes.

  Where’s Blist?

  He hoped he was snoring somewhere, while the rest of the prison guards did his work for him.

  Gulph crept through the gloomy passageways. Water dripped, a percussive sound to accompany the screams. At least Nynus had told him where Limmoni was to be imprisoned: the one cell that had remained empty since their escape. The little room where Nynus had spent ten years of his young life.

  The Black Cell.

  This way . . . around this corner . . . up these steps . . .

  A torch flared. Horror coursed through Gulph as two legionnaires stepped into its light, their bronze armor glinting. He had been on the verge of running; now he stopped abruptly, his heels skidding on the greasy floor. The soldiers advanced, shoulder to shoulder, then parted.

  A third figure came forward between them. Gulph saw flowing robes, a pair of gloved hands, a triumphant smile.

  Magritt!

  It was a trap!

  His heart pounding, Gulph spun on his heels and ran . . . straight into the clutches of a third legionnaire waiting behind him. A gloved hand clamped around his throat, almost lifting him off the ground.

  “No!” he gasped. “Let me go!” He beat at the man with his hands, tried to kick him, but to no avail.

  “I knew you were a traitor,” said Magritt, circling him like a hawk. “I told Nynus, but he would not believe me, not without proof. So I decided to give him some.”

  Gulph flailed in the legionnaire’s grasp. “Where is she?” he croaked. “What have you done with her?”

  “The Vault of Heaven is not the only secure place in Idilliam,” said Magritt. “Your wizard friend is safe in the castle. Locked up, of course. But safe.” She loomed over him, sneering in the torchlight. “But you, Gulph, are not so safe.”

  “You don’t scare me!”

  “Be quiet! How dare you? How dare you betray our trust, you ugly, ungrateful brat! We picked you out of the gutter, raised you up to a position of high office, and this is how you reward us!”

  “You didn’t raise me up! You dragged me down!”

  Magritt leaned close. “King killer,” she whispered.

  To Gulph’s dismay, his eyes filled instantly with tears. “You made me do it,” he choked. “I didn’t know. You tricked me.”

  Straightening up, Magritt snapped her fingers. The legionnaire kept his grip on Gulph’s throat while the other fastened heavy chains around his arms and legs. By the time they’d finished, Gulph felt twice as heavy as he had been, and was almost completely unable to move.

  “Let me see you wriggle out of that, you deformed monster,” said Magritt. She walked away into the darkness, her robes billowing behind her.

  “You’re the monster!” yelled Gulph, throwing the words after her. But she was already gone.

  The legionnaires dragged Gulph like a side of beef to one of the big communal cells. Blist himself was there, a crooked smile on his sweating face.

  “Ah, the frog boy returns!” He cackled.

  Blist opened the cell door, using a barbed whip to keep back the jostling prisoners. Gulph was thrown inside. The chains clanked as he landed, driving their cold metal curves into his back. The door slammed shut, the key rattled in the lock, and the footsteps of the retreating men faded to nothing.

  Gulph fought to breathe against the constricting pressure of the chains on his chest. One by one, the faces of the other prisoners appeared above him, staring down out of the darkness, just as the prophecy stars had done. But there was no light in their eyes, only hatred and despair.

  Gulph found a corner and shrank into it. Now he knew how a sheep felt when the wolves closed in. He curled up and waited for it to be over.

  CHAPTER 18

  When he’d first flown over the village, Tarlan would have said Lord Vicerin’s troops boasted only a few dozen men. Now, as he flew over it again, he saw the enemy attacking afresh and in the hundreds. It seemed an extraordinary show of force.

  There’s more to this than Lady Darrand said, he thought. Lord Vicerin wants to take over Ritherlee. What other explanation could there be?

  Tarlan bunched his hands in Theeta’s neck ruff and shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Lord Vicerin’s goal was not his concern. He and the thorrods were hired mercenaries, nothing more. As soon as they’d done their job, they would be on their way. These humans could sort out their own affairs.

  “Low over the mill,” he said to Theeta, tugging her to the left.

  His giant steed banked smoothly, the long feathers on her wings rippling silently in the changing airflow. Her head snapped back and forth, keen eyes tracking the soldiers on the ground as an eagle might follow its rodent prey.

  The mill loomed. This was where the fighting was at its fiercest. In the shadow of the slowly turning waterwheel, villagers valiantly brandished farm tools against the Vicerin attackers. What they lacked in weaponry and training they made up for in vigor; all the same, their well-armed opponents we
re steadily pushing them back.

  “Put the sun behind us,” said Tarlan.

  Adjusting her trajectory, Theeta swooped down on the Vicerin squad. The soldiers looked up, their faces terrified. They raised their hands to their eyes, momentarily blinded. The thorrod screeched. Several of the soldiers screamed. Tarlan grinned.

  Scary, isn’t she?

  Theeta plunged through the middle of the soldiers, her talons lifting men bodily into the air and tossing them aside, her beak opening and closing, opening and closing. A spray of blood blossomed, splashing Tarlan’s cheek. Horrified, thrilled, he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Having cut a swath through the Vicerin troops, Theeta flew a tight circle around the mill, narrowly missing the waterwheel as she came in for a second attack.

  “They’re falling back!” said Tarlan, pleased to see not the weapons of the enemy but the backs of their uniforms. “Let’s encourage them.”

  As a line of villagers ran in to deal with the injured, Theeta chased the retreating Vicerin troops up the steep bank overlooking the mill. One soldier slipped and fell; Theeta speared him with a talon before he could get up.

  The rest just ran faster.

  Once he was sure this particular troop was no further threat, Tarlan steered Theeta back to the mill. The dead and wounded lay on the ground, their blue sashes turning red as the blood flowed out of their bodies.

  As the thorrod flew overhead, the villagers raised a ragged cheer. Tarlan urged Theeta higher, keen to gain an overview of the battlefield. To his right, Kitheen had chased a second squad of soldiers into a tight gully that ended when it met a steep rock wall. Trapped, the men turned, only to find the huge thorrod slashing at them with his claws and beak. Tarlan pulled Theeta away. No form of prey could survive when Kitheen was in a killing frenzy.

  A leisurely pass over the village reassured him that the fighting was all but over. Despite the overwhelming odds, the thorrods had turned the tide of the battle. More of Lady Darrand’s own soldiers had now arrived, easily identifiable in their brown leather armor. Together they helped the villagers rout out any last pockets of resistance. The rest of Lord Vicerin’s men were in full retreat.

  It was over.

  A shadow passed over Tarlan. Looking up, he saw Nasheen soaring overhead. The wound on her white breast still looked bad, but she was flying straight and level, her wings beating as powerfully as they ever had. Caraway’s poultice was clearly doing its job. Though she’d been awake when the fighting had started, Tarlan had ordered her to remain in the woods, partly to regain her strength, partly to keep watch over the sick tigron cub.

  “Nasheen!” Tarlan called, his heart filled with joy at the sight of her. “Are you all right?”

  “Filos,” said the thorrod. “Awake.”

  Tarlan grinned. The news just kept getting better.

  Soon we’ll be able to leave!

  “Good!” he said. “Go back to her. Keep her safe. It’s nearly over here. We’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Tired,” said Theeta, gazing at Nasheen as she headed back toward the thicket.

  Tarlan patted her neck. “I’m sure you are, my friend. If anyone’s earned a rest, you have. Put me down.”

  Theeta landed in front of the mill, where the villagers were busy covering the dead with sacking and carrying the wounded away on wooden litters. Tarlan slipped down from the thorrod’s back and touched his hand to her beak, aware of the awed expressions of the onlookers.

  Lady Darrand’s chariot appeared from behind the mill. The warrior woman was standing at the reins, a fierce smile on her face, her bloodied sword held high. When she saw Tarlan, she let out a guttural cry.

  “Go to the others,” said Tarlan to Theeta. “Get your rest. I’ll be with you soon.”

  The thorrod flew off just as Lady Darrand’s chariot drew to a halt beside Tarlan. He stroked the horses, sensing their stress from the battle.

  “It’s over,” said Tarlan.

  “And we are grateful to you, thorrod rider,” said Lady Darrand. “This village is free of Vicerin’s rats once and for all.” She eyed him steadily. “I do not know what fate brought you to us, but I’m glad it did. The times are dark in Toronia. May you travel safely.”

  Tarlan nodded. “We will. I hope you get your daughter back.”

  Lady Darrand raised her helmet in farewell.

  She drove her chariot onward and Tarlan started walking back to the thicket where his pack was waiting.

  “Please!” a voice called. “Please, wait one moment!”

  Tarlan turned. A man in a dirty cloak was hurrying up to him.

  “You’ll be hungry on the road,” the man said. “Won’t you take some food for yourself and your friends? I don’t have much, but I want you to have it. You saved my home, you see.”

  Tarlan hesitated. He’d happily eat whatever he and his pack caught on their travels. Still, the man looked so eager that he found himself agreeing.

  “Why not?” he said with a grin. “Lead the way.”

  • • •

  “This is where I keep my supplies,” the man said. They had come to a barn tucked away from the rest of the village in a shallow vale. The man opened the door and ushered Tarlan through it. “Whatever you find in here is yours.”

  Tarlan strode inside. The barn was gloomy. Thick dust hung in the air from the hay bales stacked by one of the walls. In the far corner was a barrel next to a stack of crates. Must be where the food is, he thought.

  He went over and lifted the lid of the first crate.

  Empty.

  The next crate was empty too, and the barrel.

  “Hey!” Tarlan called. “What’s going on?”

  The man was inside the barn now too—and closing the door.

  Then movement caught Tarlan’s eye. On the wall, flickering behind the hay bales, were shadows.

  It’s a trap. . . .

  Enraged, Tarlan raised his sword as five Vicerin soldiers burst through the hay bales. Straw showered everywhere. The man who’d lured him here threw off his cloak, revealing his blue Vicerin colors beneath. His blade clanged against Tarlan’s.

  Tarlan dodged and swung at him. It was too close quarters to use his bow, and the unfamiliar weapon felt slow and heavy; Tarlan grimly wished he had something more effective at hand.

  A thorrod’s beak, for example.

  Laughing, the soldier parried Tarlan’s clumsy thrust, the force of it shoving Tarlan all the way back through the door and out into the sunlight. He stumbled, looking around for Lady Darrand’s soldiers. But the Vicerin soldier had chosen this barn for good reason—there was no one in sight.

  I’m alone.

  Recovering his balance, Tarlan sidestepped another blow, then lunged with his sword again. Another soldier fended him off, this time forcing Tarlan to his knees. Then the soldier pulled a small, curved knife from his belt and slashed at Tarlan’s face. Tarlan recoiled and the blade whistled past a hairbreadth away. His feet tangled together and he fell, dropping his sword.

  His vision faltered. His ears filled up with a low, dull roar.

  Get up, he told himself. Come on!

  But the man with the knife had fallen on him. He planted his knees on Tarlan’s chest and all the breath whooshed out of him. He clawed in vain in the dirt for his sword, then felt cold steel at his throat.

  Tarlan froze.

  “Don’t kill him!” came a voice from the barn.

  “Why not?” said Tarlan’s opponent.

  “Lord Vicerin wants us to take the kids alive, remember?”

  The soldier removed his knees from Tarlan’s chest and grabbed his arms. Another pair of hands seized his legs. Before he could even draw breath, he was being dragged back into the barn.

  “Take his bow! Tie him up and cover his head!”

  A moment later, Tarlan found himself facedown in the dirt. Hasty fingers tied thick rope around his wrists and ankles. Someone put a rag in his mouth and drew a coarse canvas bag over hi
s head. Everything went dark. He was lifted, then dropped. His body felt like a lump of dead prey.

  “Theeta!” he tried to yell. But the rag turned his shout into a meaningless groan.

  Something hit his head and the world went black.

  • • •

  Tarlan woke to the sound of creaking. His head—aching from the blow he’d received—was still covered, and his arms and legs were tied. Trussed like a mountain fowl, he was lying on a wooden floor that swayed to and fro as he struggled to free himself. Something heavy pressed down on him, hampering his movements. He remembered Mirith talking about boats. Was he at sea?

  Trying to spit the rag out of his mouth, he cursed himself for being captured again. He felt hot and stifled, and yearned for the cold, clean air of his homeland.

  Yalasti. Ritherlee. Is there anywhere I can really be safe?

  Tarlan’s fear for himself was quickly overwhelmed by a greater concern:

  What’s become of my pack?

  The swaying stopped. Somewhere nearby, a horse whinnied. Not a boat, then, but a cart.

  The weight was lifted from his body, and a hand snatched away the hood. Tarlan blinked against the sudden rush of light. Hands fumbled with the knots around his ankles. As soon as they were free, he kicked out, only to find a knife at his ribs.

  “Calm yourself, bird boy,” said the soldier. “Now, I’m going to remove your gag. Are you going to be quiet, or am I going to stick you?”

  Tarlan glared at his captor.

  “Take it off,” said the soldier who’d untied his legs. “He’s got nowhere to go.”

  As soon as the rags were unwrapped from his face, Tarlan spat out the gag and worked his jaw, gulping down the fresh air as a parched man might swallow water.

  “Come on,” said the first soldier. “Lord Vicerin will be happy to have another hostage.”

  “There’s no prison built that can keep me,” Tarlan snapped back. “What happened to Theeta?”

  “Who?”

  “The thorrod, you idiot.”

  The soldier’s tone hardened. “Why should I care about that monster? Now shut up, or I’ll put this sack right back over your head.”

  For all his pent-up frustration, Tarlan was too weary to put up a fight. He felt detached from his body, and the effects of Caraway’s poultice were wearing off, leaving his injured shoulder feeling hot and sore. Better to bide his time and regain his strength. He’d escaped captivity before; he could do it again.