The Fugitive Prince (Bell Mountain)

by Lee Duigon

  Baron Roshay Bault hadn’t forgotten about the children, but there was nothing he could do about getting them back home, just now. The king had made him responsible for the defense of all the towns along the river from Caristun up into the foothills, and he had militia to raise and train, palisades to build around the towns that didn’t have them, inspection tours to make, and a communications network to organize. Messages came to him from all directions. And there was a powerful Heathen army in Silvertown to be kept track of.

  “They’ll be all right,” his wife comforted him. “They made it to Obann safely, and Martis will look after them, once he catches up to them.”

  Roshay smiled at her. Once upon a time Vannett would have been in a perpetual panic over this, and he not far behind her. But since the morning the bell rang on Bell Mountain, fearfulness and Vannett were strangers.

  “I have to go to the chamber house,” he said, “and see the wandering prester that the patrol brought in last night. Ashrof says the man’s a fraud.”

  “Try to be home in time for supper.”

  Ninneburky had changed since Jack and Ellayne first left it. For one thing, there were more people in it, many of them refugees from other towns. Having survived an attack last spring by the army of the Zeph, much had been done to make the town’s defenses even stronger. New militia marched in and out for drills, and work crews toiled to reinforce the wooden palisade with stone. They dug the moat deeper. They built new wharfs on the river, and barges came and went with cargoes of lumber, stone, and provisions.

  Jack’s mother’s great-uncle, Ashrof, now a prester, waited for the baron at the chamber house, meeting him at the door. It was Ashrof who’d prayed for deliverance from the Zeph, and God provided it—an unseasonable storm of snow and freezing rain.

  “Thank you for coming, Baron,” he said.

  “What don’t you like about this wandering prester, Ashrof?”

  The old man frowned. “I know the names of almost all the presters,” he said, “but I never heard of any Prester Lodevar from a town called Wyllyk in the Southern Wilds. Maybe there’s no such place. But what I’ve heard is that this man preaches the Thunder King’s New Temple, and that the people must turn to it or God will turn away from them. Also I think he might be quite mad. I had to put a guard on him.”

  “Well, let’s question him,” said Roshay.

  They had him locked inside the prester’s meditation closet, with a militiaman on guard at the door.

  “Glad to see you, Baron!” the guard said. “This cluck’s been talking my ear off with his nonsense, all day long, and he won’t shut up. He finally gave it a rest just a few minutes ago.”

  “Let’s have a look at him.”

  The man who called himself Prester Lodevar sat on the stool that was the only piece of furniture in the room, red-eyed, with his chin propped on his hands and his elbows on his knees. Roshay expected a frothing-at-the-mouth, doing-handstands lunatic, but this man looked sane enough. He looked weary, too.

  “Why have you confined me as a prisoner?” he said. “I take it that you, sir, are a man of authority. What have I done, to be treated so?”

  Very reasonable questions, Roshay thought. Not knowing the answers, he responded, “They tell me you’re mad. Madmen are confined for their own good.”

  “Please don’t get him started up again!” muttered the guard.

  “Mad, am I?” said the prisoner. “If I’m mad, what shall we call people who incur God’s wrath and won’t repent? Who can’t see the sign of His wrath in the destruction of the Temple in Obann? Who, when their enemy makes peace with God and builds a New Temple for Him, refuse to worship there? What would you call that, if not madness? And is it sane to punish anyone who tries to call these people to their senses?”

  Ashrof interrupted. “But you call yourself a prester, and you are not!”

  “And yet you are?” Lodevar said. “Are any of the presters left in Obann truly presters? Who ordained them? In what Temple do they serve? Their Temple lies in ruin, by God’s decree, and their First Prester died in its destruction.”

  “Did he?” Roshay said. He was one of the few who knew that Lord Reesh betrayed the Temple, escaped, and died with the first Thunder King in the avalanche at the Golden Pass. But Obst had cautioned him not to speak of that.

  “The First Prester died!” Lodevar said, raising his voice. “But there is a new First Prester now, and he ordained me. So I’m more a prester than this man here.”

  “Anew First Prester?” Roshay said. “And who ordained him?”

  Lodevar laughed. “The Thunder King himself, by the grace of God—that’s who ordained him!”

  “This is blasphemy and foolishness,” Ashrof said. “The First Prester is elected by the College of Presters, and the Thunder King is a wicked Heathen.”

  “You’re the one who’s spouting foolishness, old man. There’s no more Temple in Obann! Your College of Presters is extinct—no Temple, no college!”

  “If you shout at us again, I’ll have you bound and gagged and shipped to Obann facedown in a flatboat,” Roshay said.

  Lodevar made an effort to restrain himself and answered the baron’s questions as calmly as he could. Roshay already knew something about this Goryk Gillow and his activities in Silvertown, thanks to reports from Hlah. But he learned more now: most importantly, that Goryk had ordained many false presters and sent them into Obann to preach the New Temple.

  This prisoner would have to be sent on to Obann soon, he decided. This was a matter for the king’s advisers. He left Lodevar under guard and had a last word with Ashrof before going home for supper.

  “I don’t like this at all,” he said. “This traitor Goryk has enslaved the people in Silvertown, and he has a Heathen army there.”

  “Do you think they will invade Obann?” Ashrof asked.

  “I do—but not until Goryk’s preachers do their work. I think they all ought to be rounded up and put away. Otherwise they’ll confuse the people.”

  “I’m confused!” Ashrof said. “How could anyone accept these base persons as presters? ‘Ordained’ by a traitor to Obann, no less! Everything’s gone all topsy-turvy since the Bell rang.”

  Roshay shrugged. “See if you can get him to tell you the names of any more of these Silvertown presters,” he said. “Keep him talking, and have someone handy to write down everything he says.”

  Obst’s Book of Scripture was held for safekeeping at Carbonek, all of the Old Books in a single volume. Ryons could hardly lift it, but he was delighted to have it at last. He was a little less delighted when Perkin put it on a table for him and opened it, and he got his first glimpse of a page.

  “I can’t read this!” he said. “The letters Dyllyd taught me never looked like these.”

  The man peered over Ryons’ shoulder. “It’s the ancient language, Majesty,” he said. “The letters are different because some scribe took great pains to make them fancy, and tried to make them look like ancient letters.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I’m rusty at this,” Perkin said, “and I never did complete my studies. Still, I’ll try to read it.” He bent a little closer to the book and read aloud. “Ayn micklen rukh os myner Godd, Ih sal niht fyle hem hallen-var.” He smiled down at Ryons. “‘A mighty tower is my God, I shall not fail to praise Him.’ It’s from one of King Ozias’ Sacred Songs. I remember that verse.”

  Ryons thought for a moment, then asked, “Why does God need to be praised?” And Perkin laughed.

  “He doesn’t!” he said. “But it is His due, and a good and wholesome thing for us to do. We need to praise God because it nourishes our souls.”

  Ryons wasn’t sure what a soul was, or how it got nourished. But he did understand that King Ozias had just spoken to him, out of this book. And Obst and Jandra said that King Ozias, the servant of God, was his own ancestor.

  “Teach me that language, Perkin! I want to hear more. I want to know what it means!”

  �
�I’ll try, Your Majesty; but I’m not much of a scholar. There are Scriptures in these books that are ages older than Ozias, and some of them I never did learn how to read in the original. In the Book of Beginnings, some of the fascicles are older than Obann itself and written in languages that no man has spoken since the world was young.”

  A thrill touched Ryons at some place deep inside his being. He had no words to express it. But he was sure that someday he would.

  Chapter 40

  Tidings of the King

  It was amazing, Jack thought, how much ground Wytt could cover in a day. They were hard-pressed to keep up with him, and in just three days he led them to the fringe of Lintum Forest. They would have arrived even sooner, had the human beings not had to forage for food along the way.

  “Remember the first time we came here?” Ellayne said. “We saw the knuckle-bears.” Those were big, horsey-looking animals with bodies like bears and long front legs armed with mighty claws. “They gave us a scare!”

  Martis silently recalled his own first visit to the forest. A giant bird killed and ate his horse. The encounter had almost unmanned him, but he was over it now.

  Soon they were on a path leading into the forest, and then inside the forest itself, with blackberry bushes all around them and the trees growing higher and thicker with every step they took. Orange flame-butterflies escorted them, and jays scolded from the treetops. They completely lost sight of Wytt. The children plucked sweet berries as they walked. Behind them, Martis led Dulayl.

  “It’s so sunny and peaceful,” Ellayne said. “No wonder Obst liked it so much.”

  Half a mile ahead, Wytt would not have agreed with her observation. There were disturbances in this region of the forest, and the birds were all complaining. Here and there he caught the scent of unwashed humans still clinging to the ferns and bushes. He didn’t like their scent.

  He hadn’t picked up any trace of Ryons and Cavall. The Forest Omah would know where Ryons was, but there didn’t seem to be many of them in this neighborhood. It was in Wytt’s mind that there were only a few of them living around here and that they were in hiding. They might know he was in the area, but they weren’t letting him find them.

  Mardar Wusu had painted the bottom of his face black and the top half red, with a wide white band across his eyes and nose. It was a bad sign, and Goryk Gillow didn’t know what to do about it.

  “I will leave you the Wallekki and the Griffs—that’s half the army,” the mardar said. “I’m going to take the Zamzu and most of the Hosa with me and bring our master’s wrath to Lintum Forest.”

  “That’s been tried before,” said Goryk. “Half the army! Have you received a command from our lord King Thunder?”

  Wusu grinned, a fearful sight. “Of course!”

  There was no arguing with that. Goryk, of course, knew the secret of the Thunder King—the same secret Gallgoid discovered just before the last Thunder King was buried in the avalanche. The mardars claimed to do all they did under the instructions of their master, conveyed to them magically over great distances; and such was their skill at pretending, that all the subject peoples believed it and looked on the mardars as little less than gods, or devils. But it was all a lie. Mardars simply did as they thought best and ascribed their actions to the commandments of the Thunder King. Goryk himself did the same.

  “It’s late in the season to start a campaign,” he couldn’t help saying. “And meanwhile, what becomes of my campaign to make peace with Obann and quietly draw them into servitude?”

  They were alone in Goryk’s house. Outside, the work of rebuilding Silvertown went on, with a few recalcitrant slaves dangling from a gallows as a warning to the others. Goryk did not like the idea of having only half the army left in Silvertown to enforce his will.

  “Call it what it is,” said Wusu, “an expedition to punish bandits who are no good to Obann or to us. Besides, I’ll return before the leaves begin to fall.”

  “But surely it would be better to wait—”

  “I’ve run out of patience,” Wusu said. “I want to see Helki’s head rotting on a spear. But even more than that, we have need of swift action. We have a chance that might not come again.”

  “A chance? What chance?”

  Wusu paused a moment, obviously pleased with himself and building up to something. Goryk knew him well enough to wait.

  Finally Wusu said, “Some of my Wallekki rode in last night. They brought a man to see me, one of Helki’s enemies. They picked him up just as he was fleeing out of the forest, and he asked them to take him to Silvertown without delay. They rode hard.

  “I spoke with that man last night, and he brought me news.” He paused again, then smiled. “The king of Obann,” he said slowly, “is now in Lintum Forest. And I am going to capture him.”

  The fugitive captured by Wusu’s scouts was Hwyddo, the outlaw. In his flight through Lintum Forest, he met and spoke to other outlaws and learned that the boy who’d traveled with the giant bird, and claimed to be a friend of Helki’s, was none other than King Ryons himself. A man who’d deserted from Helki recognized the king from Hwyddo’s description of him.

  In hope of earning a reward, Hwyddo made all the haste he could to the east end of the forest, on his way to Silvertown. Maelghin, his companion, snapped his ankle on a twisted root and had to be left behind.

  Now Hwyddo was to ride back to Lintum Forest as a guide. “If I take the king alive and kill Helki,” the mardar said, “I’ll make you Prince of Lintum Forest.” Too late, Hwyddo wondered what would happen to him if the mardar didn’t take the king and Helki.

  With many qualms, Goryk watched the troops march out of Silvertown the next day. He didn’t like the half of the army that Wusu had left with him. The people feared the Zamzu, who were cannibals, and now he’d have to do without them. Why couldn’t the mardar have waited for Obann to fall into their hands without a fight? As for the boy king being in Lintum Forest at all, Goryk had his doubts about that. As far as his own spies knew, the king was still in Obann City where he belonged.

  So Goryk composed another letter to the new oligarchs in the city, to be delivered as fast as his relay-riders could gallop.

  The First Prester to Lord Merffin Mord, High Oligarch: Greetings.

  Be advised that the army of my master King Thunder has sent a punitive expedition to Lintum Forest to destroy bands of lawless men who break the peace and commit every kind of crime & violence. No threat to Obann is intended. In truth, these outlaws are your enemies as well as ours. Our mission is one of pacification only.

  We have not asked you to send troops, as our own are able to quell the outlaws without assistance, & we understand that your first concern is to restore good order in your city & elsewhere.

  Meanwhile, my lord the Thunder King has confidence that your desire for peace is equal to his own & awaits your acknowledgement of his New Temple as the means of a lasting & honorable peace between our two countries.

  Goryk sighed. Kara Karram was a very long way from Silvertown, and like the mardars themselves, in this matter he was acting on his own. The Thunder King had indeed named him First Prester for the New Temple, and someday Goryk would go there. But if his plans miscarried in the meantime, he knew the Thunder King would have him put to death in some remarkably unpleasant way. A mutiny among the troops left in Silvertown would surely be his undoing.

  “I have dared much,” Goryk said to himself, “but there’s no backing out of it now.”

  Or so he thought.

  Chapter 41

  The Baron Has Visitors

  One thing continued to trouble Martis as they advanced deeper into the forest. He didn’t want to talk about it with the children, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Lord Reesh had nothing in his whole collection like the little item Martis now carried in his saddlebag. Indeed, Reesh might have traded everything he had for it. And yet the Thunder King had entrusted this rarity to a single agent working in a sparsely populat
ed region of Obann, to overawe the folk of towns and villages.

  “He has more,” Martis brooded. “He must have more. And he must have things that are greater than this.” For the Commentaries spoke of weapons of the ancients that could turn a whole city into rubble in the blink of an eye. Reesh had often wondered about what kinds of ancient relics might be found in other parts of the world, where perhaps the Day of Fire hadn’t burned so hot as it had in Obann.

  Ah—but if he had them, Martis argued with himself, why hadn’t he used them?

  Maybe it took time to learn, he thought.

  “Hey, look at that!” Jack said, pointing to the ground.

  In a muddy patch surrounding a little pool of stagnant water, Martis saw a footprint. “It’s still got water in it, and the edges are soft,” he said. “Someone passed this way just an hour or two ago. But if he were close by, I think Wytt would have warned us. No telling whether it was a hunter, an outlaw, or one of Helki’s scouts.”