by Brandon Mull
A dozen dogs still pursued them. Jason had dropped the billiard ball in the fall. The only weapon he now bore was his poniard. Tark had his knife. Several paces ahead Drake held his sword.
Out of a grove of trees on one side of the field came Jasher on a splendid black charger, riding straight toward Jason and Tark. He was leading a gray horse.
“Prongs!” shouted Tark, swerving to the left.
“No! He’s a friend!”
Jasher raised a crossbow. He fired a quarrel. It was a long shot to the dogs. Jason glanced back. A boarhound pitched forward, a shaft protruding from its chest.
Jasher discarded the crossbow and produced another one. A mastiff fell. The crossbow went into the grass, replaced by another. Another mastiff went down with a yelp.
Jasher was almost upon Jason and Tark as he produced a fourth crossbow. “Take the horse,” he ordered, releasing the reins.
The freed horse thundered straight at Jason. How was he supposed to stop a speeding horse? He dove out of the way, reaching back halfheartedly for the loose reins. He missed the reins, and the horse raced past, gradually slowing.
Jasher leveled his crossbow and shot another boarhound.
“Turn and fight!” Drake called. He flung a short sword end over end. The blade stuck in the ground at Jason’s feet, and he seized it.
Jason and Tark whirled to face the remaining dogs. With a fifth crossbow Jasher reduced the dogs to seven as he bolted past them to intercept Kimp.
Drake trotted away from Tark and Jason, creating some space. Brandishing his sword, he shouted at the onrushing canines. Four of the dogs veered after him.
Three dogs—two boarhounds and a mastiff—charged at Jason and Tark. Jason sidestepped the leap of the mastiff, slashing its head as it soared past. A bounding boarhound rammed Tark into a backward somersault, taking his heavy knife through the chest in the process. The second boarhound came at Jason low, sweeping his legs out from under him with its rushing bulk.
The boarhound tore at the leg of Jason’s pants, teeth penetrating to the flesh. Suddenly the mastiff he had slashed was upon him as well, going for his throat. Jason gave it his forearm instead. He had dropped the short sword. With his free hand he desperately pushed against the writhing bulk of the ferocious canine.
The boarhound was no longer savaging Jason’s leg. Then Tark tackled the mastiff. Arm pistoning frantically, Tark stabbed the dog repeatedly, until it went limp.
Sitting up, Jason observed that the boarhound at his feet had also been dispatched by Tark. Off to one side, untouched, Drake stood calmly with a bloody sword in hand, surrounded by four dead dogs. Turning his head, Jason saw Jasher and Kimp closing on each other. Jasher held his doubled chain. Kimp brandished his flanged mace. Both horses galloped wildly.
As they reached each other, Kimp sprang from the saddle, straight at Jasher. Jasher swung his chain, but it was too late—Kimp collided with him, and both men flew off the back of Jasher’s horse to roll in the grass.
Both men arose immediately. Kimp used his free hand to intercept Jasher’s chain on its way to his tattooed head, while simultaneously swinging his club with a quick, one-handed backhand that struck Jasher in the chest.
The hasty blow from the mace was not particularly forceful, but it was accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. There came a brief glare of intense light, and then Jasher blew apart in a roaring explosion that hurled Kimp backward in fiery ruin.
Jason gaped in disbelief. Some distance away a flock of birds took flight. Smoke mushroomed up from the blast. Kimp lay motionless, his clothes aflame. Just like that both men were destroyed.
“Jasher was a seed person,” Jason gasped, sprinting toward the fallen warriors.
Tark followed.
“His seed pops out when he dies,” Jason told Tark. “If we find his amar, we can save him.”
“Be quick,” Drake warned, scanning the surrounding area as he hurried to join them. “Others will come after us. We’re losing our chance to flee.”
Jason found Jasher’s scorched head and neck still attached to part of his torso, lying face up, long hair matted in charred tangles. Jason turned the remnant of his former protector facedown and checked beneath the roll of hair at the nape of his neck. He found an empty socket.
“The seed got out,” Jason said, on the verge of tears. “Search the grass!”
The three of them fanned out, combing carefully through the knee-high grass.
“Maybe it was destroyed,” Tark said.
“No,” Jason said, refusing to consider the possibility. “He saved us. We’re going to find it.”
“The amar is normally quite durable,” Drake muttered, studying the ground.
The circle of their search continued to widen. Jason periodically looked back toward the castle for evidence of additional pursuit.
Tark returned to where Jasher’s head lay, and squatted, searching meticulously. A moment later he held up the gray, walnut-sized seed. “We missed it. The seed was half buried. It must have detached while he was lying there, before you flipped him over.”
Jason sighed with relief. “We have to plant it in a safe, fertile spot.”
“Far from here,” Drake said.
Tark nodded, slipping the seed into a pouch on his belt.
One of the horses, the black one Jasher had ridden, remained close by. Kimp’s steed had started grazing over a hundred yards away. The gray horse Jasher had led had run off a good distance across the field. It began grazing as well.
“I’ll bring the gray horse back,” Tark said, mounting Jasher’s horse.
“I’ll get Kimp’s mount,” Drake called over his shoulder, already running toward the stallion.
Jason looked around. Where was Rachel? Jasher must have insisted she hang back.
The gray horse shied away from Tark when he got close, but Tark rode it down and caught hold of the reins.
Blood trickled down Jason’s arm to his hand as he watched Drake mount Kimp’s horse. Jason hesitantly inspected his wound. His sleeve was tattered above ugly tears and punctures in his skin. Maybe he could cut a strip of material from his cloak and fashion a bandage.
Tark was waving an arm, pointing in Jason’s direction. Jason turned around. No less than twenty horsemen were emerging from the trees behind him at full gallop. These were not reinforcements from the castle. They came from off to one side.
Drake sat astride his horse, sword in hand, frowning. Behind Drake, across the field, Jason saw Rachel emerge from the edge of the woods on horseback. Tark was returning for Jason, the gray horse in tow. Neither Tark nor Drake could possibly make it in time. Jason waved them away. “Go, go, go!” he shouted. “Drake, save Rachel! Tark, tell her ‘rim’! Tell her ‘rim’! Go!”
Saluting with his sword and spurring his mount, Drake rode away from the soldiers. His horse jumped a fence and galloped madly up a gentle slope toward where Rachel waited.
Tark reined in his horse, hesitating.
“Get out of here!” Jason yelled. “‘Rim’!”
Tark released the gray horse and took off, veering away from Drake.
Jason turned to face the riders. With no recourse he raised his hands in surrender. Most drew up around him. Four went after Tark. Five others chased Drake and Rachel.
Several lightly armored men dismounted, seizing Jason roughly. These were not conscriptors—or if they were, they wore less impressive armor than the ones who had previously tried to capture him. Their helmets had no face guards. They searched him and relieved him of his poniard.
“Lord Jason of Caberton, I presume?” asked a man still seated on horseback, apparently the commander.
“Yes.” Jason felt defiant. He was captured, his friends were on the run, and he had little to lose. “How’d you know?”
“We were warned early this morning of your possible defection. A recent signal confirmed your decision. Is this the seedman Jasher?” The commander indicated the charred remains.
“It’
s his identical twin.”
“We know he traveled with you until recently. Where is his amar?”
“I ate it.”
“This is a foolish time for flippancy.”
“I panicked. It tasted horrible. Do you have any mouthwash?”
“Search the vicinity,” the commander ordered his men. “And check the young lord thoroughly.”
They methodically searched Jason and his clothes. Crouching soldiers scoured the surrounding area with painstaking care. “The amar is not here, sir,” a soldier finally reported.
“Search again,” the commander directed. “There can be no error. And bind the prisoner’s wounds.”
A stinging salve was applied to Jason’s torn arm and leg, after which they were wound with linen bandages. Nobody found a seed.
“One of the other men has it, then,” the commander concluded. “They should be apprehended by now.”
“Your men won’t be back,” Jason said. “Do you know the kind of people who live at Harthenham? I’m not talking about the fat ones. I’m talking about the sort who kill guys like you as a hobby.”
“Enough nonsense.”
Several minutes later a lone rider returned, his horse lathered.
“The man who went north rides Kimp’s stallion, Mandibar. The girl had an excellent mount as well. The horses were too fast. The others remain in pursuit, but unless they make a mistake, our only chance lies in anticipating a destination and heading them off.”
The commander scratched his cheek. “Where was he going?” he asked Jason.
“How should I know? He was running away.”
“Tell me about your friends.”
“I hardly knew them. The one who ran off with the girl is named Christopher Columbus. Tall guy. Really skinny. Green hair. Fangs. Six fingers on his left hand. About a hundred years old. Lots of wrinkles.”
“I trust you are enjoying yourself,” the commander sneered. “You are currently protected by orders to inflict no unnecessary harm. Otherwise I would teach you to guard your tongue. Your impudence will not go unpunished for long.” He turned to his men. “Edmund—go to Harthenham and ascertain who we are pursuing. Bradford—take two men to Orin and find the pair who fled north. Cecil, take two men and track the man Eric pursued to the west. The rest of us are off to Felrook.”
CHAPTER 23
THE WORD
A-rim-fex-en-dra-puse. Arimfexendrapuse. The stupidest word Jason could have imagined. Utter nonsense. Supposedly it would unmake Maldor. He repeated the odd syllables in his mind, varying the inflection. If it failed, he could always try “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
For the past several days Jason had ridden east, under the watchful eye of Ian, the commander who had captured him. Six other heavily armed guards rode along as escorts. Ian had promised that before sunset today Jason would behold Felrook.
Throughout the journey Ian had remained tight-lipped about what specifically would happen to Jason. The commander gave ample hints that it would be unpleasant but offered no particulars. Jason hoped they would bring him before Maldor. Since the emperor should not suspect Jason had the entire Word, getting captured could turn into the perfect opportunity to finish his quest.
If he succeeded in destroying the emperor, Jason knew he might face immediate execution. But he was already facing torture or death in the dungeons of Felrook. How great would it be to take down the emperor instead! He thought about the joy it would bring to Rachel, Galloran, Jasher, Tark, Nicholas, and all of the others who had helped him. He had already beaten the odds by surviving as long as he had. Maybe he would find a way to survive after defeating Maldor.
Still, he couldn’t keep a variety of fears from haunting him. What if they planned to brainwash the syllables out of his memory before bringing him before Maldor, to minimize the risk? Galloran was evidence that such precautions were within their power. What if they opted to never even bring him before Maldor? Or what if they gagged him?
With the sun approaching the horizon, Jason and his captors came through a narrow pass. A large valley spread out before them to the north, with Felrook in the distance. Jason did not know what exactly he had expected, but the reality surpassed anything he had anticipated.
A monstrous stronghold of iron and stone, the huge castle surmounted a tall island of rock in the center of a sprawling lake. The sheer cliffs of the island rose to great heights above the water, augmented by the monumental outer wall of the fortress. Four lesser rock formations surrounded the central island. Atop these satellite islands perched smaller fortresses, the two largest connected to the central stronghold by stone bridges, the other two by suspended walkways.
Further fortifying the intimidating complex, the ferry granting access to Felrook was encompassed by a formidable wall of its own. Three hills loomed near the lake, each crowned with a mighty keep, from which reserve forces could sally to harass assailing armies. Without atomic bombs or high explosives Jason could not conceive how Felrook could ever fall.
“Has Felrook ever been taken?” Jason asked Ian.
Ian snorted. “Felrook has never been attacked.”
Jason could believe it.
“Are we going to make it there tonight?” Jason asked.
“You have one last night to contemplate your fate,” Ian replied. “We’ll camp not far from here, then deliver you late tomorrow morning. I hope you’re ready to answer for your crimes. You cannot imagine the horrors that await.”
“Will I go to the dungeon?” Jason asked.
“You will answer for your behavior,” Ian promised cryptically.
Jason said nothing more as they rode forward and set up camp. After eating, all but two guards bedded down. Hands bound in front of him, Jason rested on his side. He had already tried to run off one night, earning a lump on the back of his head and a black eye. Jason knew it was futile to attempt another escape. All of his hopes were now focused on earning an opportunity to stand before the emperor.
Despite the long day riding, Jason found sleep elusive. He could not ignore that this was probably the final night of his life. His parents would never see him again, nor would his brother and sister. He would never see Matt or Tim. He would never play with Shadow. None of them would ever know what really happened.
When he finally slept, frustrating visions troubled him. He dreamed of his teeth falling out, of arriving for exams unprepared, and of searching for his parents in a chaotic crowd.
Until Drake shook him awake. “You’re the heaviest sleeper of the bunch,” the seedman chuckled.
Jason sat up, disoriented, hands unbound. The fire had burned low. He could see the figures of the soldiers sleeping around him.
“Keep your voice down,” Jason whispered urgently.
Drake grinned. “They can’t hear us anymore.”
“You mean . . .”
“The only tricky part was the sentries,” Drake said. “And they weren’t much of a challenge.”
Jason could hardly believe his ears. He looked around. “Who came with you?”
“I delivered Rachel to Tark and sent them northward,” Drake said. “I’ve been stalking your little caravan for days. I figured we might as well let them bring you most of the way.”
“You know about the Word?” Jason asked.
“Rachel filled me in,” Drake said. “Tark gave her the last syllable. The second, correct?”
“Yes.”
Drake rubbed the back of his neck. “I can hardly believe somebody finally pieced it all together. Rachel wanted to come. She tried to insist. But I reminded her that if you failed, she would become our last hope. Besides, I knew that alone I could successfully slip past our enemies and track you. Another person would have made the outcome less certain.”
“If I fail,” Jason said, “Rachel should share the syllables with someone else.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Drake said. “But you won’t fail, not if you have the syllables right.”
“You know ho
w to get me in front of Maldor?” Jason asked.
“I do,” Drake replied. “Might be a one-way trip, and you’ll have to go alone, but I know how. Are you willing?”
The question made Jason pause. Drake had rescued him. They could run away. “Will there ever be a better opportunity?” Jason asked.
“To get in front of Maldor?” Drake verified. “The emperor no longer leaves Felrook. The only sure way to gain an audience with him is to ring the gong near the gate to the ferry. By imperial decree anyone can ring it and talk to the emperor. In practice nobody ever touches it. Guards protect it, and everyone understands that while ringing the gong guarantees an audience with Maldor, it provides no assurances regarding the consequences of that audience.”
“So what do we do?” Jason asked.
“We leave now,” Drake said. “We get to the ferry before sunrise. I’ll create an opportunity, and you’ll ring the gong.”
Jason realized that unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life running from agents of the emperor, he had to finish this. Drake seemed committed and able. Here was a real chance to succeed where so many others had failed. If the gong would grant an audience with Maldor, he could fulfill his mission and maybe move on with his life.
“Let’s go,” Jason said.
Outside the wall protecting the ferry was a town considerably bigger than it had looked from afar. Drake and Jason rode into town before sunrise, both wearing clothing and armor taken from the fallen soldiers. Drake carried a bow and a quiver of twelve arrows. Jason had recovered his poniard, along with a regular sword and a crossbow. They passed numerous stables, several warehouses, various inns, diverse shops, and multiple garrisons.
After tying up their horses, Drake led Jason down a series of alleyways. From the shadowy shelter of an alley Drake indicated a roofed platform accessible by stairs on three sides. Sheltered by the roof, hardly visible despite the burning cressets nearby, the round shape of a large gong dangled from a crossbeam. Beside it hung a mallet on a chain. Jason counted four guards.
“I’ll climb onto the roof of that building across the street,” Drake said. “You’ll make your way to that shed over there.” He pointed.