The Ruby Knight

by David Eddings

  ‘It’s a painful thing to hope for the death of a loved one, Sir Ulath, but God help me, I find that I do.’ The count put his hand on a foot-thick stack of unbound paper lying on his desk. ‘My life’s work, gentlemen.’ He seated himself. ‘To business then. Exactly what are we looking for?’

  ‘The grave of King Sarak of Thalesia,’ Ulath told him. ‘He didn’t reach the battlefield down in Lamorkand, so we assume he fell in some skirmish up here in Pelosia or in Deira – unless his ship was lost at sea.’

  Sparhawk had never thought of that. The possibility that Bhelliom lay at the bottom of the straits of Thalesia or the Sea of Pelos chilled him.

  ‘Can you generalize a bit?’ the count asked. ‘Which side of the lake was the king’s destination? I’ve broken my chronicle down by districts to give it some organization.’

  ‘In all probability, King Sarak was bound for the east side,’ Bevier replied. ‘That’s where the Thalesian army engaged the Zemochs.’

  ‘Are there any clues at all about where his ship landed?’

  ‘Not any that I’ve heard,’ Ulath admitted. ‘I’ve made a few guesses, but they could be off by a hundred leagues or so. Sarak might have sailed to some seaport along the north coast, but Thalesian ships don’t always do that. We’re reputed to be pirates in some quarters, and Sarak might have wanted to avoid the tiresome questions and just drove his prow up onto some deserted beach.’

  ‘That makes it a little more difficult,’ Count Ghasek said. ‘If I knew where he’d landed, I’d know which districts he might have passed through. Does Thalesian tradition provide any description of the king?’

  ‘Not in very much detail,’ Ulath replied, ‘only that he was about seven feet tall.’

  ‘That helps a bit. The common people probably wouldn’t have known his name, but a man of that size would have been remembered.’ He began to leaf through his manuscript. ‘Could he possibly have landed on the north coast of Deira?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s possible, but unlikely,’ Ulath said. ‘Relations between Deira and Thalesia were a bit strained in those days. Sarak probably wouldn’t have put himself in a position to have been captured.’

  ‘Let’s begin up around the port of Apalia then. The shortest route to the east side of Lake Randera would run south from there.’ He began to leaf through the pages in front of him. He frowned. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything useful here,’ he said. ‘How large was the King’s party?’

  ‘Not very sizeable,’ Ulath rumbled. ‘Sarak left Emsat in a hurry, and he only took a few retainers with him.’

  ‘All of the accounts I picked up in Apalia mention large bodies of Thalesian troops. Of course it could be as you suggested, Sir Ulath. King Sarak might have landed on some lonely beach and by-passed Apalia entirely. Let’s try the port of Nadera before we start combing beaches and isolated fishing villages.’ He consulted a map and then turned to a place about half-way through the manuscript and began to skim through it. ‘I think we’ve got something!’ he exclaimed with a scholar’s enthusiasm. ‘A peasant up near Nadera told me about a Thalesian ship that slipped past the city during the night early in the campaign and sailed several leagues up the river before she landed. A number of warriors disembarked, and one of them stood head and shoulders above the rest. Was there anything unusual about Sarak’s crown?’

  ‘It had a large blue jewel on top of it,’ Ulath said, his face intent.

  ‘That was him, then,’ the count said exultantly. ‘The story makes particular mention of that jewel. They say that it was the size of a man’s fist.’

  Sparhawk let out an explosive breath. ‘At least Sarak’s ship didn’t sink at sea,’ he said with relief.

  The count took a length of string and stretched it diagonally across the map. Then he dipped his pen into his inkwell and made a number of notes. ‘All right, then,’ he said crisply. ‘Assuming King Sarak took the shortest course from Nadera to the battlefield, he’d have passed through the districts on this list. I’ve done research in all of them. We’re getting closer, Sir Knights. We’ll track down this king of yours yet.’ He began to leaf through rapidly. ‘No mention of him here,’ he muttered, half to himself, ‘but there weren’t any engagements in that district.’ He read on, his lips pursed. ‘Here!’ he said, his face breaking into a smile of triumph. ‘A group of Thalesians rode through a village twenty leagues to the north of Lake Venne. Their leader was a very large man wearing a crown. We’re narrowing it down.’

  Sparhawk found that he was actually holding his breath. He had been on many missions and quests in his life, but this searching out a trail through paper had a strange excitement to it. He began to understand how a man could devote his life to scholarship with absolute contentment.

  ‘And here it is!’ the count said excitedly. ‘We’ve found him.’

  ‘Where?’ Sparhawk demanded eagerly.

  ‘I’ll read you the entire passage,’ the count replied. ‘You understand, of course, that I’ve cast the account in more gentlemanly language than that of the man who told it to me.’ He smiled. ‘The language of peasants and serfs is colourful, but hardly suitable for a scholarly work.’ He squinted at the page. ’Oh, yes. Now I remember. This fellow was a serf. His master told me that the fellow liked to tell stories. I found him breaking up clods with a mattock in a field near the east side of Lake Venne. This is what he told me:

  ‘“It was early in the campaign, and the Zemochs under Otha had penetrated the eastern border of Lamorkand and were devastating the countryside as they marched. The western Elenian kings were rushing to meet them with all the forces they could muster, and large bodies of troops were crossing into Lamorkand from the west, but they were primarily farther south than Lake Venne. The troops coming down from the north were mostly Thalesians. Even before the Thalesian army landed, however, an advance party of them rode south past Lake Venne.

  ‘“Otha, as we all know, had sent out skirmishers and patrols well in advance of his main force. It was one of those patrols that intercepted the party of Thalesians mentioned above at a place called Giant’s Mound.”’

  ‘Was the place named before or after the battle?’ Ulath asked.

  ‘It almost had to have been after,’ the count replied. ‘Pelosians don’t erect burial mounds. That’s a Thalesian custom, isn’t it?’

  ‘Right, and the word “giant” describes Sarak rather well, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Exactly my thought. There’s more, though.’ The count continued to read. ‘“The engagement between the Thalesians and the Zemochs was short and very savage. The Zemochs vastly outnumbered the small band of northern warriors and soon swarmed them under. Among the last to fall was the leader, a man of enormous proportions. One of his retainers, though sorely wounded, took something from his fallen leader’s body and fled west towards the lake with it. There is no clear account of what it was that he took or what he did with it. The Zemochs pursued the retainer hotly, and he died of his wounds on the shore of the lake. However, a column of Alcione Knights, men who had been returned to their Mother-house in Deira to recuperate from wounds received in the campaign in Rendor, happened by on their way to Lake Randera and exterminated the Zemoch patrol to the last man. They buried the faithful retainer and rode on, by purest chance missing the site of the original engagement.

  ‘“As it happened, a sizeable force of Thalesians had been following the first party by no more than a day. When the local peasants informed them of what had transpired, they buried their countrymen and erected the mound over their graves. This second Thalesian force never reached Lake Randera, since they were ambushed two days later, and all were slain.”’

  ‘And that explains why no one ever knew what had happened to Sarak,’ Ulath said. ‘There was no one left alive to tell anybody about it.’

  ‘This retainer,’ Bevier mused, ‘might it have been the king’s crown he took?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Ulath conceded. ‘More likely, though, it would have been his swor
d. Thalesians put great value on royal swords.’

  ‘It won’t be hard to find out,’ Sparhawk said. ‘We’ll go to Giant’s Mound and Tynian can raise Sarak’s ghost. He’ll be able to tell us what happened to his sword – and his crown.’

  ‘Here’s something odd,’ the count said. ‘I remember that I almost didn’t write it down because it happened after the battle. The serfs have been seeing a monstrously deformed shape in the marshes around Lake Venne for centuries now.’

  ‘Some swamp creature?’ Bevier suggested. ‘A bear perhaps?’

  ‘I think that serfs would recognize a bear,’ the count said.

  ‘Maybe a moose,’ Ulath said. ‘The first time I ever saw a moose, I couldn’t believe anything could get that big, and a moose hasn’t got the prettiest face in the world.’

  ‘I remember that the serfs said that the thing walks on its hind legs.’

  ‘Could it possibly be a Troll?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘That one who was roaring outside our camp by the lake?’

  ‘Did the serfs describe it as shaggy and very tall?’ Ulath asked.

  ‘It’s shaggy, right enough, but they say it’s squat, and its limbs are all twisted.’

  Ulath frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like any Troll I’ve ever heard about – except maybe -’ His eyes suddenly went wide. ‘Ghwerig!’ he shouted, snapping his fingers. ‘It has to be Ghwerig. That nails it down, Sparhawk. Ghwerig’s looking for Bhelliom, and he knows right where to look.’

  ‘I think we’d better go back to Lake Venne,’ Sparhawk said, ‘and just as fast as we can. I don’t want Ghwerig to find Bhelliom before I do. I definitely don’t want to have to wrestle him for it.’

  Chapter 17

  ‘I am eternally in your debt, my friends,’ Ghasek said to them in the castle courtyard the next morning as they were preparing to leave.

  ‘And we are in yours as well, My Lord,’ Sparhawk assured him. ‘Without your aid, we’d have had no chance of finding what we seek.’

  ‘God speed then, Sir Sparhawk,’ Ghasek said, shaking the big Pandion’s hand warmly.

  Sparhawk led the way out of the courtyard and back down the narrow track to the foot of the crag.

  ‘I wonder what’s going to happen to him,’ Talen said rather sadly as they rode along.

  ‘He has no choice,’ Sephrenia said. ‘He has to stay there until his sister dies. She’s no longer a danger, but she still has to be guarded and cared for.’

  ‘I’m afraid the rest of his life is going to be very lonely,’ Kalten sighed.

  ‘He has his books and chronicles,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘That’s all the company a scholar really needs.’

  Ulath was muttering under his breath.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ Tynian asked him.

  ‘I should have known that the Troll at Lake Venne was there for some specific reason,’ Ulath replied. ‘I could have saved us some time if I’d investigated.’

  ‘Would you have recognized Ghwerig if you’d seen him?’

  Ulath nodded. ‘He’s dwarfed, and there aren’t very many dwarfed Trolls about. She-Trolls usually eat deformed cubs as soon as they’re born.’

  ‘That’s a brutal practice.’

  ‘Trolls aren’t famous for their gentle dispositions. They don’t even get along with each other most of the time.’

  The sun was very bright that morning, and the birds sang in the bushes near the deserted village in the centre of the field below Count Ghasek’s castle. Talen turned aside to ride into the village.

  ‘There won’t be anything in there to steal,’ Kurik called after him.

  ‘Just curious, that’s all,’ Talen called back. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Do you want me to go and get him?’ Berit asked.

  ‘Let him look around,’ Sparhawk said. ‘He’ll complain all day if we don’t.’

  Then Talen came galloping out of the village. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were wild. When he reached them, he tumbled from his horse and lay on the ground retching and unable to speak.

  ‘We’d better go and have a look,’ Sparhawk said to Kalten. ‘The rest of you wait here.’

  The two knights rode warily into the deserted village with their lances at the ready.

  ‘He went this way,’ Kalten said quietly, pointing at the tracks of Talen’s horse in the muddy street with the tip of his lance.

  Sparhawk nodded, and they followed the tracks to a house that was somewhat larger than the others in the village. The two dismounted, drew their swords and entered.

  The rooms inside were dusty and devoid of any furniture. ‘Nothing at all in here,’ Kalten said. ‘I wonder what frightened him so much.’

  Sparhawk opened the door to a room at the back of the house and looked inside. ‘You’d better go and get Sephrenia,’ he said bleakly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A child. It’s not alive, and it’s been dead for a long time.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Look for yourself.’

  Kalten looked into the room and made a gagging sound. ‘Are you sure you want her to see that?’ he asked.

  ‘We need to know what happened.’

  ‘I’ll go and get her then.’

  The two went back outside. Kalten remounted and rode out to where the others waited while Sparhawk stood near the door of the house. A few minutes later, the blond knight returned with Sephrenia.

  ‘I told her to leave Flute with Kurik,’ Kalten said. ‘We wouldn’t want her to see what’s in there.’

  ‘No,’ Sparhawk replied sombrely. ‘Little mother,’ he apologized to Sephrenia, ‘this will not be pleasant.’

  ‘Few things are,’ she said resolutely.

  They took her inside the house to that back room.

  She took one quick look and then turned aside. ‘Kalten,’ she said, ‘go and dig a grave.’

  ‘I don’t have a shovel,’ he objected.

  ‘Then use your hands!’ Her tone was intense, almost savage.

  ‘Yes, Sephrenia.’ He seemed awed by her uncharacteristic vehemence. He left the house quickly.

  ‘Oh, poor thing,’ Sephrenia mourned, hovering over the desiccated little body.

  The body of the child was withered and dry. Its skin was grey, and its sunken eyes were open.

  ‘Bellina again?’ Sparhawk asked. His voice seemed loud, even to himself.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘This is the work of the Seeker. This is how it feeds. Here,’ she pointed at dry puncture marks on the child’s body, ‘and here, and here, and here. This is where the Seeker fed. It draws out the body’s fluids and leaves only a dry husk.’

  ‘Not any more,’ Sparhawk said, his fist closing about the haft of Aldreas’s spear. ‘The next time we meet, it dies.’

  ‘Can you afford to do that, dear one?’

  ‘I can’t afford not to. I’ll avenge this child – against the Seeker or Azash or even against the gates of Hell itself.’

  ‘You’re angry, Sparhawk.’

  ‘Yes. You could say that.’ It was stupid and served no purpose, but Sparhawk suddenly tore his sword from its scabbard and destroyed an inoffending wall with it. It didn’t accomplish anything, but it made him feel a little better.

  The others came silently down into the village and to the open grave Kalten had grubbed out of the earth with his bare hands. Sephrenia came out of the house with the dry body of the child in her arms. Flute came forward with a light linen cloth, and the two carefully wrapped the dead child in it. Then they deposited it in the rude grave.

  ‘Bevier,’ Sephrenia said, ‘would you? This is an Elene child, and you are the most devout among these knights.’

  ‘I am unworthy.’ Bevier was weeping openly.

  ‘Who is worthy, dear one?’ she said. ‘Will you send this unknown child into the darkness alone?’

  Bevier stared at her and then fell to his knees beside the grave and began to recite the ancient prayer for the dead of the
Elene church.

  Rather peculiarly, Flute came up beside the kneeling Arcian. Her fingers gently wove through his curly blue-black hair in a strangely comforting way. For some reason, Sparhawk began to feel that the strange little girl might be far, far older than any of them realized. Then she raised her pipes. The hymn was an ancient one, almost at the core of the Elene faith, but there was a minor Styric overtone to it. Briefly, in the sound of the little girl’s song, Sparhawk began to perceive some unbelievable possibilities.

  When the burial was complete, they mounted and rode on. They were all very quiet for the rest of that day, and they stopped for the night at the campsite beside the small lake where they had encountered the wandering minstrel. The man was gone.

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ Sparhawk said. ‘It was too much to hope for that he’d still be here.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll catch up with him farther south,’ Kalten suggested. ‘That horse of his wasn’t in very good shape.’

  ‘What can we do about him even if we do catch him?’ Tynian said. ‘You weren’t planning to kill him, were you?’

  ‘Only as a last resort,’ Kalten replied. ‘Now that Sephrenia knows how Bellina influenced him, she could probably cure him.’

  ‘Your confidence is very nice, Kalten,’ she said, ‘but it might be misplaced.’

  ‘Will the spell she put on him ever wear off?’ Bevier asked.

  ‘To some degree. He’ll grow less desperate as time goes on, but he’ll never be entirely free of it. It might even make him write better poetry, though. The important thing is that he’ll grow less and less infectious. Unless he meets a fair number of people in the next week or so, he won’t be much of a danger to the count, and neither will those servants.’

  ‘That’s something at least,’ the young Cyrinic said. He frowned slightly. ‘Since I was already infected, why did that creature come to me that night? Wasn’t that just a waste of her time?’ Bevier seemed still strongly shaken by the funeral service for the dead child.

  ‘It was for reinforcement, Bevier,’ she told him. ‘You were agitated, but you wouldn’t have gone as far as to attack your companions. She had to make sure you’d go to any lengths to free her from that tower.’