‘I didn’t know who you were, Priestess,’ he gibbered. ‘Forgive me, please.’
‘We’ll see. Is there no one else in the town?’
‘None, Priestess – only me. I’m too crippled to travel, and I can hardly see. They left me behind.’
‘We seek another group of travellers – four men and a woman. One of the men has white hair. Another looks like an animal. Have you seen them?’
‘Please don’t kill me.’
‘Then speak.’
‘Some people passed through here yesterday. They may have been the ones you’re looking for. I can’t say for sure because they didn’t come close enough to the fire for me to see their faces. I could hear them talking, though. They said they were going to Aka and from there to the capital. They stole Tassalk’s boat.’ The hunchback sat up on the floor, clasped his arms about him and began to rock back and forth rhythmically, moaning to himself.
‘He’s crazy,’ Tynian said quietly to Sparhawk.
‘Yes,’ Sparhawk agreed sadly.
‘All gone,’ the hunchback crooned. ‘All gone off to die for Azash. Kill the Elenes, then die. Azash loves death. All die. All die. All die for Azash.’
‘We’re going to take a boat,’ Sephrenia cut through his ravings.
‘Take. Take. Nobody will come back. All die, and Azash will eat them.’
Sephrenia turned her back on him and returned to where the others stood. ‘We’ll leave here now,’ she said in a steely tone.
‘What’s going to happen to him?’ Talen asked her, his voice subdued. ‘He’s all by himself here and nearly blind.’
‘He’ll die,’ she replied in an abrupt tone of voice.
‘All alone?’ Talen’s voice was half-sick.
‘Everybody dies alone, Talen.’ She resolutely led them from the stinking tavern.
Once she was outside, however, she broke down and wept.
Sparhawk went to his saddlebags and took out his map. He studied it with a frown. ‘Why would Martel go to Aka?’ he muttered to Tynian. ‘It’s leagues out of his way.’
‘There’s a road from Aka to Zemoch,’ Tynian said, pointing at the map. ‘We’ve been pushing him hard, and his horses are probably nearly exhausted.’
‘Maybe that’s it,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘And Martel’s never been very fond of going across country.’
‘Will we follow the same route?’
‘I don’t think so. He doesn’t know much about boats, so he’ll wallow around out there in the gulf for several days. Kurik’s a sailor though, so he can take us straight across. We should be able to make it from the east shore to the capital in about three days. We can still get there before he does. Kurik,’ he called, ‘let’s go and find a boat.’
Sparhawk was leaning against the rail of the large, tar-smeared scow Kurik had selected. The surface winds had swung briefly around to the west, and their ship sped across the choppy waters of the gulf towards the east. Sparhawk reached inside his tunic and took out Ehlana’s letter.
‘Beloved,’ it began. ‘If all has gone well, you’re very close to the Zemoch border by now – and I must believe that all has gone well or else I shall go mad. You and your companions will succeed, dearest Sparhawk. I know that as surely as if God himself had told it to me. Our lives are strangely controlled, my love. We were destined to love each other – and to marry. We had no real choice in this, I think – though I would certainly have chosen no other. Our meeting each other and our marriage were all a part of some grander design – even as was the gathering of your companions. Who in all the world could be more perfectly suited to aid you than the great men who ride with you? Kalten and Kurik, Tynian and Ulath, Bevier and dear Berit, so young and so very brave, all of them have joined with you in love and common purpose. You surely cannot fail, my beloved, not with such men at your side. Hasten, my champion and husband. Take your invincible companions to the lair of our ancient foe and confront him there. Let Azash tremble, for the Knight Sparhawk comes with Bhelliom in his fist, and not all the powers of Hell can prevail against him. Hasten, my beloved, and know that you are armed not merely with Bhelliom but with my love as well.
I love you,
Ehlana.’
Sparhawk read through the letter several times. His bride, he saw, had a very strong tendency towards oratory. Even her letters had the tone of a public address. Stirring though the message was, he might have preferred something a bit less polished, something more genuine. Although he knew that the emotions she expressed came from her heart, her fondness for the well-turned phrase somehow intruded itself between them. ‘Oh well,’ he sighed. ‘She’ll probably relax as we get to know each other better.’
Then Berit came up the deck, and Sparhawk remembered something. He read through the letter again and made a quick decision. ‘Berit,’ he called, ‘do you suppose I could have a word with you?’
‘Of course, Sir Sparhawk.’
‘I thought you might like to see this.’ Sparhawk handed him the letter.
Berit looked at it. ‘But this is personal, Sir Sparhawk,’ he objected.
‘It concerns you, I think. It may help you to deal with a problem you’ve been having lately.’
Berit read through the letter, and a strange expression came over his face.
‘Does that help at all?’ Sparhawk asked him.
Berit flushed. ‘Y-you knew?’ he stammered.
Sparhawk smiled a bit wryly. ‘I know it may be hard for you to believe, my friend, but I was young once myself. What’s happened to you has probably happened to every young man who’s ever lived. In my case, it was when I first went to court. She was a young noblewoman, and I was absolutely certain that the sun rose and set in her eyes. I still think of her on occasion – rather fondly, actually. She’s older now, of course, but her eyes still make me weak when she looks at me.’
‘But you’re married, Sir Sparhawk.’
‘That’s fairly recent, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I felt for that young noblewoman. You’ll waste a lot of dreams on Ehlana, I expect. We all do that in these cases, but maybe it makes better men of us.’
‘Surely you won’t tell the queen.’ Berit seemed shocked.
‘Probably not, no. It doesn’t really concern her, so why should I worry her about it? The point I’m trying to make here, Berit, is that what you’re feeling is a part of growing up. Everybody goes through the same thing – if he’s lucky.’
‘You don’t hate me then, Sir Sparhawk?’
‘Hate you? God no, Berit. I’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t feel this way about some young, pretty girl.’
Berit sighed. ‘Thank you, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said.
‘Berit, before very long, you’re going to be a full-fledged Pandion Knight, and then we’ll be brothers. Do you suppose we could drop that “sir”? Just “Sparhawk” will do. I more or less recognize the name.’
‘If you wish, Sparhawk,’ Berit said. He offered his friend the letter.
‘Why don’t you keep it for me? I’ve got a lot of clutter in my saddlebags, and I wouldn’t want to lose it.’
Then the two of them, their shoulders almost touching, went aft to see if Kurik needed any help with the ship.
They rigged a sea-anchor that evening, and when they awoke the following morning, they found that the rain and snow had passed, though the sky was still lead-grey.
‘That cloud’s there again, Sparhawk,’ Berit reported, coming forward from the stern. ‘It’s a good long way behind us, but it’s definitely there.’
Sparhawk looked aft. Now that he could actually see it, it did not seem quite so menacing. When it had been that vague shadow hovering always at the very edge of his vision, it had filled him with an unnamed dread. Now he had to be very careful not to think of it as little more than some minor annoyance. It was still dangerous, after all. A faint smile touched his lips. It appeared that even a God could blunder, could push something past the point of effectiveness.
�
��Why don’t you just dissolve that thing with Bhelliom, Sparhawk?’ Kalten asked irritably.
‘Because it would just form up again. Why waste the effort?’
‘You aren’t going to do anything about it then?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to ignore it.’
About mid-morning they landed on a snowy beach, waded the horses ashore and set the boat adrift. Then they mounted and rode inland.
The eastern side of the gulf was far more arid than the mountains to the west had been, and the rocky hills were covered with a layer of fine black sand, thinly covered in sheltered spots with skiffs of powdery snow. The wind was bitingly cold, and it lifted clouds of dust and snow to engulf them as they pushed on. They rode through what seemed a perpetual twilight, their mouths and noses covered with scarves.
‘Slow going,’ Ulath observed laconically, carefully wiping dust from his eyes. ‘Martel’s decision to go by way of Aka might have been wise.’
‘I’m sure it’s just as cold and dusty on the road from Aka to Zemoch,’ Sparhawk said. He smiled faintly. ‘Martel’s a fastidious sort. He absolutely abhors getting dirty. The notion of a couple of pounds of fine black sand mixed with snow sifting down the back of his neck sort of appeals to me for some reason.’
‘That’s very petty, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia chided.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’m like that sometimes.’
They took shelter that night in a cave, and when they emerged the following morning they found that the sky had cleared, although the wind had picked up and was stirring up clouds of the perpetual dust.
Berit was the sort of young man who took his responsibilities very seriously. He had taken it upon himself to scout around at first light, and he was just returning as the rest of them gathered at the cave mouth. They could clearly see his look of revulsion as he came nearer. ‘There are some people out there, Sparhawk,’ he said as he dismounted.
‘Soldiers?’
‘No. They have old people and women and children with them. They have a few weapons, but they don’t seem to know how to handle them.’
‘What are they doing?’ Kalten asked.
Berit coughed nervously and looked around. ‘I’d really rather not say, Sir Kalten, and I don’t think we want Lady Sephrenia to see them. They’ve set up a sort of an altar with a clay idol on it, and they’re doing things people shouldn’t do in public. I think they’re just a group of degenerate peasants.’
‘We’d better tell Sephrenia,’ Sparhawk decided.
‘I couldn’t do that, Sparhawk,’ Berit said, blushing. ‘I couldn’t describe what they’re doing in front of her.’
‘Generalize, Berit. You don’t have to be too specific’
Sephrenia, however, proved to be curious. ‘Exactly what are they doing, Berit?’
‘I knew she was going to ask,’ Berit muttered reproachfully to Sparhawk. ‘They’re – um – they’re sacrificing animals, Lady Sephrenia, and they aren’t wearing any clothes – even in this cold. They’re smearing blood from the sacrifices on their bodies, and they’re – um –’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m familiar with the rite. Describe the people. Do they look Styric, or are they more Elene?’
‘Many of them are fair-haired, Lady Sephrenia.’
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that’s who they are then. They don’t pose any particular danger. The idol is another matter, though. We can’t leave it behind us. We have to smash it.’
‘For the same reason we had to break the one in the cellar at Ghasek?’ Kalten asked.
‘Exactly.’ She made a little face. ‘I shouldn’t really say this, but the Younger Gods blundered when they confined Azash to that clay idol in the shrine near Ghanda. The idea was sound enough, but they overlooked something. The idol can be duplicated by men, and if certain rites are performed, the Spirit of Azash can enter the duplicates.’
‘What do we do?’ Bevier asked.
‘We smash the idol before the rite’s completed.’
The unclad Zemochs in the canyon were none too clean, and their hair was tangled and matted. Sparhawk had never truly realized before just how much of human ugliness is concealed by clothing. The naked worshippers appeared to be peasants and herdsmen, and they squealed with fright as the mail-shirted knights burst upon them. The fact that the attackers were disguised as Zemochs added to their confusion. They ran this way and that, bawling in terror.
Four of their number wore crude ecclesiastical robes, and they stood before the altar where they had just finished sacrificing a goat. Three of them gaped in stunned disbelief at the knights, but the fourth, a scraggly-bearded fellow with a narrow head, was weaving his fingers and speaking desperately in Styric. He released a series of apparitions which were so ineptly formed as to be laughable.
The knights rode directly through the apparitions and the milling crowd.
‘Defend our God!’ the priest shrieked, his lips flecked with foam. His parishioners, however, chose not to do that.
The mud idol on the crude altar seemed to be moving slightly, even as a distant hill seems to dance and waver in the shimmering heat of a summer afternoon. Wave upon wave of sheer malevolence emanated from it and the air was suddenly deathly cold. Sparhawk suddenly felt his strength draining away, and Faran faltered. Then the ground before the altar seemed to bulge. Something was stirring beneath the earth, something so dreadful that Sparhawk turned his eyes away in sick revulsion. The ground heaved, and Sparhawk felt cold fear grip his heart. The light began to fade from his eyes.
‘No!’ Sephrenia’s voice rang out. ‘Stand firm! It cannot hurt you!’ She began to speak rapidly in Styric, then quickly held out her hand. What appeared there glowed brightly and seemed at first no larger than an apple, but as it rose into the air, it expanded and grew brighter and brighter until it was almost as if she had conjured up a small sun to hang in the air before the idol, and that sun brought with it a summer-like warmth that burned away the deathly chill. The ground ceased its restless heaving, and the idol froze, once again becoming motionless.
Kurik spurred his trembling gelding forward and swung his heavy chain-mace once. The grotesque idol shattered beneath the blow, and its shards flew out in all directions.
The naked Zemochs wailed in absolute despair.
Chapter 25
‘Round them up, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said, looking with a shudder at the naked Zemochs, ‘and please make them put their clothes back on.’ She looked at the altar. ‘Talen,’ she said, ‘gather up the fragments of the idol. We won’t want to leave them here.’
The boy didn’t even argue with her.
The ‘rounding up’ did not take very long. Naked, unarmed people do not customarily resist when mailed men with sharp steel in their hands start giving orders. The priest with the narrow head continued to shriek at them, however, although he was very careful not to give them any other reason to chastise him. ‘Apostates!’ he howled. ‘Defilers! I call upon Azash to –’ His words trailed off into a kind of croak as Sephrenia extended her arm and the serpent head reared from her palm, its tongue flickering. He stared at the swaying image of the reptile, his eyes bulging. Then he collapsed and grovelled in the dirt before her.
Sephrenia looked around sternly, and the other Zemochs also sank to the ground with a horrified moan. ‘Perverted ones!’ she snarled at them in the corrupt Zemoch dialect. ‘Your rite has been forbidden for centuries. Why have you chosen to disobey mighty Azash?’
‘Our priests beguiled us, dread Priestess,’ one shaggyhaired fellow gibbered. ‘They told us that the prohibition of our rite was a Styric blasphemy. They said that it was the Styrics in our midst who were leading us away from the true God.’ He seemed blind to the fact that Sephrenia herself was Styric. ‘We are Elene,’ he said proudly, ‘and we know that we are the chosen ones.’
Sephrenia gave the Church Knights a look that conveyed volumes. Then she looked at the rag-tag band of un
washed ‘Elenes’ grovelling before her. She seemed about to speak once, her breath drawn in to deliver a shattering denunciation. Instead, however, she let out the breath, and when she spoke, her voice was clinically detached. ‘You have strayed,’ she told them, ‘and that makes you unfit to join your countrymen in their holy war. You will return to your homes now. Go back to Merjuk and beyond, and venture no more to this place. Do not go near the temple of Azash, lest he destroy you.’
‘Should we hang our priests?’ the shaggy fellow asked her hopefully, ‘or burn them perhaps?’
‘No. Our God seeks worshippers, not corpses. Henceforth you will devote yourselves to the rites of purification and of reconciliation and the rites of the seasons only. You are as children, and as children shall you worship. Now go!’ She straightened her arm, and the serpent-head emerging from her palm, reared up, swelling, growing and becoming not so much a serpent as a dragon. The dragon roared, and sooty flames shot from its mouth.
The Zemochs fled.
‘You should have let them hang that one fellow at least,’ Kalten said.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I just set them on the path of a different religion, and that religion forbids killing.’
‘They’re Elenes, Lady Sephrenia,’ Bevier objected. ‘You should have instructed them to follow the Elene faith.’
‘With all its prejudices and inconsistencies, Bevier?’ she asked. ‘No, I don’t think so. I pointed them in a gentler way. Talen, have you finished yet?’
‘I’ve got all the pieces I could find, Sephrenia.’
‘Bring them along.’ She turned her white palfrey then and led them away from the rude altar.
They returned to the cave, gathered up their belongings and set out again.
‘Where did they come from?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia as they rode along in the biting cold.
‘Northeastern Zemoch,’ she replied, ‘from the steppes north of Merjuk. They’re primitive Elenes who haven’t had the benefits of contact with civilized people the way the rest of you have.’
The Sapphire Rose Page 44