“Lord Khan . . . “ A second voice cut timidly into O-grak's mutterings. “All the search parties are ready. They are waiting for your command.”
“Can't you set one foot in front of the other without waiting for my leave?” bellowed O-grak. The boat rocked wildly as he waded towards the beach. “Tell them to go, all except the party that's to search the southern coast; they can wait for me to join them.”
Kerish knew that the Khan was standing at the edge of the beach, staring at the Boat of Souls. The Prince reached up to touch the figure squatting on the bench beside him. O-grak extended his right hand and looked at it for a moment, before striding back towards the camp.
Forollkin waited several minutes before lifting the awning again. Gwerath took up her post and the pale light showed Gidjabolgo munching his crust and Kerish clasping the wooden fingers of a withered hand.
As the sentry moved away from them, Forollkin slipped quietly over the side. Gwerath watched anxiously as he emerged into open water. A wind had risen and the water was choppy. Surely the waves were breaking loudly enough to cover the sound of a single swimmer? Forollkin reached the shelter of the first longboat and rested for a moment against its bows.
The remainder of his swim was hidden from Gwerath and she watched the sentry instead. He limped slightly and his shoulders were bowed, like an old man's. Was that why he had been chosen to stay behind? Gwerath wrenched her thoughts away from the man and tried to see the sentry simply as a gate that had to be opened, a gateway to Galkis, and a life, however troubled, in Forollkin's company.
Gwerath gasped as her beloved sprang like a nightmare on to the sentry's back. There was a moment's struggle but before she had got further than swinging astride the boat, Forollkin had tipped back the man's head and neatly cut his throat. Gwerath did not wait to see him bundle the body into the nearest boat.
“Gidjabolgo, help me with the moorings.” She slipped over the side into the shallow water. Less gracefully, the Forgite followed. Dark and dripping, Forollkin strode back along the beach to help Gwerath unfasten the last stubborn knot and push out the boat. When the water was waist high, Kerish did what he could to help Gidjabolgo and Gwerath climb back into the boat.
With half the awning flung back, moonlight bared the secretive faces of the soul figures; blind creatures dragged on an unknown journey. `And Zeldin knows', thought Kerish, `that's apt enough'.
As the bottom dropped away, Forollkin swam for a few yards pushing against the boat, while Gwerath and Gidjabolgo lowered the makeshift oars. Then he scrambled in, and tried to wring the water from his sodden clothes.
“I'm sorry, Kerish, I had to kill the guard. He was about to cry out. His death will have bought us enough time.” His brother failed to answer but Forollkin went on more cheerfully, “The wind's right. Zeldin and Imarko must be with us. Once we're out of this bay, the wind and the current ought to sweep us towards Viroc.”
For the first half-hour their progress was agonizingly slow. Gwerath took the steering oar, and Forollkin and Gidjabolgo struggled with the makeshift oars against the capricious waters. Kerish was anxiously scanning the shore for lights, or signs of movement that would herald the discovery of their escape. If they were still in the bay when that happened, there would be no hope. Several times tension tricked him into thinking that the uproar had begun, but nothing stirred on the dark shore, and just after midnight they rounded the headland.
The open water was rough. The boat plunged and rocked and the wooden figures slid along their benches and tumbled into the aisle. Gidjabolgo pushed them back to lean drunkenly against one another. When the tide ran high in the estuary of the Jenze, the current known as the Hair of Idaala entangled ships and drew men to their deaths. To the travelers, its grip seemed a gift from Imarko bearing them towards the Galkian shore. The oars were pulled in a second too late. The ferocious current had already ripped one shield away.
“I'm sorry, Gwerath.” Forollkin laid down the dripping spear. “Your scarf has gone with the shield.” He was not sure of her expression in the elusive moonlight. “I'll get you a better one when we're back in Galkis.”
Gwerath fingered her bare throat, still saying nothing.
Gidjabolgo spat on his blistered hands. “Do I take it that we're relying on your Lord Jerenac keeping a poor watch? Or what is to stop the sentries on the walls of Viroc shooting us on sight?”
“Very little,” answered Forollkin. “The watch will be good, you can be sure of that. I hope we can land on the coast somewhere before we reach Viroc itself.”
“Haven't we anything that Jerenac's men would recognize as Galkian?” asked Gwerath.
“Only the Prince,” murmured Gidjabolgo, “and not even a mast to nail him to.”
“We could sing a hymn to Imarko as we approach,” suggested Kerish. “No Orazian would do that, even as a stratagem.”
Forollkin nodded. “That's a good idea. You and I will stand in the prow and let's hope they do recognize Galkian blood and hold their fire until we're within hailing distance.”
He had lashed the steering oar, and there was nothing to do but wait for the current to bring them close enough to the coast. The moon was fitful and a cold wind was blowing. Forollkin shivered in his wet clothes and there was nowhere comfortable to rest.
Huddled in the narrow aisle, Gidjabolgo and Gwerath did manage a little sleep but they were woken in the darkest hour of the night by a cry from Kerish, and Forollkin's anxious voice demanding, “What is it? What's the matter?”
“They know we've taken the Boat of Souls.” Kerish was doubled up as if someone had hit him. “They'll follow us soon. “
“How do you know?” whispered Gwerath.
“I felt the strength of their anger,” murmured Kerish, “and the shock of it. None of them could believe it at first, not even O-grak.”
The long wait for dawn, wondering how close the coast of Galkis really lay, and how far the pursuers were behind them, was the worst of all. Still shivering, Forollkin refused Kerish's offer of his dry cloak, but asked instead for a song or a story.
“A story to bring the sun?” Kerish smiled grimly and leant his head against the wooden thigh of the soul of Khan O-grak. For warmth, they had covered the boat again with its awning and only one flap was raised to let them see the grey shadows of the false dawn.
“In the morning of the world . . .” Kerish spoke just loudly enough to be heard above wind and water, “Imarko, fairest of Queens, looked into her mirror and saw amongst the glory of her sable hair, a single thread of silver. On that day she left the Golden City, and went up into the mountains. In the starlight, Zeldin came to her and the mountains themselves bowed down to honor him. When he took her hand, Imarko felt no cold amid the eternal snows and they danced together and celebrated their love.
But when the timid dawn disturbed their joy, Imarko spoke to Zeldin, saying, `Oh my Lord, I grow old.' He did not hide the truth from her but answered, `To you and to our children I have given a great span of life, but age and death will come at last, for that is the pattern of this world.'
And Imarko bowed her head and wept, as the stars faded from the sky.
`Yet for you, my Queen,' said Zeldin the Ever-Young, `the pattern may be altered. I will take you up with me, out of Zindar, and you shall suffer neither age nor death.'
And Imarko cried out in her joy and the sun rose over Galkis. But then she remembered her children and her people, and asked, `But must they die?'
And Zeldin answered, `Death is a precious gift, yet they will fear it, with none to guide them through the darkness.'
Then Imarko looked down at her land and said, `I have chosen. I will age; I will sicken; I will die; to be a light to my people in their darkness. Forbid me, Lord, to break this promise.'
`That I may not do,' answered the Gentle God. `The choice is yours alone. Three times I will ask before the end, whether your mind is changed. Three times only. Ah, do not weep, my Queen, for all men will love and praise you.'
Imarko returned to the Golden City and grew old. When her hair was silver as the moon and her skin like parchment, Zeldin came to her. He loved her as before, but when they parted he offered her the gift of freedom from death, and she refused. When the children of the children of the sons of Imarko were almost grown, Zeldin came to her a second time and she refused his gift with harsh and bitter weeping. At last the Queen fell sick and suffered ceaseless pain. Zeldin came to her tenderly, and she refused his gift for the third time.
With great sorrow the First Emperor watched by his mother, and she felt death near and was afraid. She called to Zeldin and he did not come. Then Imarko ordered her sons to carry her up into the mountains and they laid her litter on the edge of the snows, but still the Gentle God did not appear.
Death seized her and her sons wept but at the last a smile brought back her beauty and Imarko whispered, `O my children, do not fear death, for Zeldin is here and his hand is in mine to lead me through the dark.' Smiling still, she died.”
“Dawn's breaking,” muttered Gidjabolgo.
Forollkin sat up eagerly, but Gwerath was still staring at Kerish. “I don't know if I believe in your Zeldin, but I will honor your Lady.”
“The coast's in sight!” called Forollkin, and the others scrambled to kneel beside him.
“We're further north than I'd hoped. Do you see that glimmer of white, Gwerath? That's the ramparts of Viroc. “
The awning was tugged right back and Kerish stood up to see better, shading his eyes against the rising sun.
“There's a Galkian boat between us and the walls, beyond the path of the current.”
“A patrol boat,” said Forollkin. “I should have thought of that. Have they spotted us yet?”
“I don't think so,” Kerish swung slowly round. “But Khan O-grak is close behind us.”
“What!” Forollkin and Gwerath sprang up, setting the boat rocking, but Gidjabolgo crouched down, gazing at the coast of Galkis. “A pretty story,” he murmured absently.
Three boats were following, the dark waters of the Jenze lashed by their furious oars. In the prow of the first boat was the huge shape of Khan O-grak and behind him were four bowmen. They were not yet in firing distance, but at such a pace it couldn't be long. There was only one way of slowing them down.
“Down, all of you,” shouted Forollkin. “Lie flat. The current will bring us into hailing distance of that Galkian boat in a few minutes and then I'll try to steer towards. . .”
“Khan O-grak's boats will catch us first,” said Kerish. “Throw the soul figures overboard.”
For a moment, even Forollkin was speechless at the icy determination in his brother's voice. “What? To lighten the load?”
“No. They will have to stop to pick them up or watch their souls sink and be lost.”
“Zeldin, but you were the one who . . .”
“Do it!”
Forollkin nodded. “Gwerath, Gidjabolgo, help me. Get them beyond the current if you can.”
He lifted one of the smaller figures from its bench and tossed it overboard. A bubbling scream echoed in Forollkin's head but he bent over the next figure as Gwerath rushed to help him. Even at the distance between them, the cry of horror from the Orazian boats was audible. The Galkian patrol boat heard it too.
“They've seen us.” Kerish raised his high, pure voice in the ancient lament for the death of Imarko. Forollkin joined in raggedly, but gusts of wind carried their voices away from the shore. Gidjabolgo tried to pick up the tune but he was overridden by the splash of falling figures and a mournful screaming, like the cry of storm birds. The waves were full of soul figures, floating until the water seeped in to weigh them down.
“No, not that one!” shouted Kerish, as his brother seized the soul of Khan O-grak. Forollkin let go and went on to push the next figure over the bows.
The Orazian oarsmen faltered as the first of the souls floated into reach. Kerish heard an angry roar and guessed that the Khan was ordering his men to row on but O-grak's soul was not at risk and he had lost the right to command them.
Kerish raised his voice again, straining to be heard against the wind as the Galkian boat rowed towards them. One of its crew was winding a horn to alert the sentries on the walls of Viroc, and they had archers standing ready in the prow. Kerish lifted his arms to show that they had no weapons.
The last of soul figures was flung out. Only the brooding figure of Khan O-grak remained and all the Orazian boats had halted. Still panting with effort, the others joined Kerish. Gidjabolgo took one look at the approaching boat and squatted down, tugging at Gwerath's sleeve.
“Down, you fool. Do you look like a Galkian?”
The Princess stood stubbornly between Kerish and Forollkin. Both of them were waving. Kerish sang on and Forollkin shouted, “We're Galkian. Galkian!”
The first arrows whined towards them and fell short.
“Help us. We're Galkian!”
This time the captain of the oncoming boat heard. Too late, he seized the arm of the first archer. The arrow aimed at Kerish had already been loosed. The Prince's eyes were closed as he prayed to Zeldin and Imarko so he never saw it.
“Kerish, look out!” As Gwerath pushed the Prince down, the arrow meant for him lodged in her breast.
She fell without a cry, as Forollkin shouted on, “We're Galkian. Enemy ships behind.”
The Galkian captain heard him clearly. “Swim to us.”
“Can't!” shouted Forollkin. “Only one can swim.”
“Wait then.” The captain bellowed an order, and his oarsmen struck up a fast pace. Forollkin sprang for the steering oar and tried to turn them out of the current and towards Viroc. Behind, two of the Orazian boats were still fishing for the soul figures, but the third was rowing towards them again and the current was with the Men of the Five Kingdoms.
Forollkin ducked as the Orazian archers began to shoot. “The Galkian boat will soon...Gwerath!” He crawled towards the slight figure cradled in Kerish's arms. “She's hurt?”
Gidjabolgo held out a blood-stained arrow with a broken point. “She's dead,” he said flatly.
There was a jarring thud as the prow of the Galkian boat struck their bows and voices called out to them. Two soldiers, holding up shields against the whistling arrows, clambered into the boat.
“Hurry, climb back with us.”
One of them gestured at Gwerath. “Do you need help with her?”
“No,” said Forollkin quietly, “I'll carry her.”
Arrows thudded into the shields as they made the perilous transfer. Then the Galkians were pushing the Soul Boat back into the grip of the current.
“Highness!” The captain gasped in recognition and Kerish remembered his face from the parley. “Your Highness, we'll soon have you safe.”
The travelers crouched down within a wall of shields as the Galkian archers fired towards the three longboats. Kerish heard a ghastly choking as one man fell with an arrow in his throat but the Orazian fire was slackening. Four Galkian ships had been launched to aid the patrol boat and the walls of Viroc were perilously close.
The longboats of Oraz turned back as one of the catapults on the ramparts launched a great stone towards them. The Boat of Souls, with its solitary passenger, drifted out to sea.
“Don't pursue them,” ordered Kerish as they entered the shadow of Viroc's walls. “Forollkin. . .”
His brother stroked Gwerath's cold cheek. “Now I think of it, there were no birds. I heard them crying but there were no birds.”
Chapter 6
The Book of the Emperors: Sorrows
And he cried out, saying, “Alas, give to me some other task, for I do not have the strength to carry out your command.”
But Zeldin answered him, “There is no command stronger than your own will. Even I cannot take from you the knowledge of what is right.”
THE Prince and his companions were shown to the richest suite of rooms in the Governor's Palace. Their metal collars were wr
enched off and fresh clothes and food and wine were hastily brought. Neither Kerish nor Forollkin would rest until they had seen Gwerath's body laid out on a couch in the chapel of Imarko. Four priestesses spread a silver cloak over the Princess of the Sheyasa and knelt beside her to pray for her soul.
The captain of the patrol boat stammered a plea for forgiveness and the archer himself knelt to beg for punishment. Forollkin had just enough strength left to fear his own injustice and walk away.
“You are forgiven,” said Kerish numbly. “You did nothing but your duty.”
He flinched as the grateful archer kissed his hand.
When they returned to their rooms, a servant offered Kerish the customary hood and veil. “Highness, forgive us for looking at your face, but we had no royal robes prepared.”
Kerish permitted the man to wind the purple cloth around his head and fasten the veil across the lower half of his face. The servants bowed and withdrew.
In the next room, Gidjabolgo was seated at an ebony table with a glass of wine in one hand and a bunch of fruit in the other. “Can you eat in that thing? You should try. You both should.”
The half-brothers sat down opposite the Forgite. The table was spread with the best the beleaguered city could provide.
“Gidjabolgo is right,” murmured Kerish. “You should eat.”
He pushed a dish of kardiss towards his brother. Forollkin shook his head. “Eat it yourself.”
Gidjabolgo peeled a wrinkled yellow fruit for Kerish. At the first bite its sweetness turned his stomach and the Prince left it unfinished. He tried to stop himself believing that in a moment he would look up and Gwerath would be there, eager to learn about Galkis. There were so many things he wanted to show her...
The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) Page 11