He pushed the thought from his mind. One day, perhaps. Not now. Then he gave a sullen bitter laugh. Why would anyone wish to bring children into this hostile world, a world beset by constant danger? It was mad, truly mad.
A gentle breeze blew and Nigel let it bathe him, let it run over his body. And gradually his anger and bitterness stilled. The world could be a wonderful place, he knew, for man and Dweller alike. But not the way it was. That was the real key to his anger. Men must break out of the Valley, seek the paths through the forest. In the lands beyond would they find peace and contentment, far from the savage dogs. The Fates had given the Valley to men, the ancient priests had said, all the rest was the domain of the Dwellers. Nigel shook his head. What nonsense! The world belonged to all, man and Dweller alike.
Nigel walked to the fountain and took a long drink. His throat was dry and irritated from speaking, and the water was refreshing. He glanced up at the lowering sun, saw his dagger reflecting the light in a swirl of rainbow colors. But the coming of night reminded him that he would soon be going home, and would have to confront Antonius with the news of what had happened. And at this moment he wasn’t ready for it.
Better to walk for a while, he knew, to try to clear his head and prepare his plan for the next meeting of the Council. With a sigh he crossed the avenue and made his way down a narrow arched street that led to Central Square.
So lost in thought was he that he almost missed noticing the three hooded men who walked in procession in front of him and made their own way to Central Square. The man in the lead was carrying a large bell, and every few moments he rang it loudly. Nigel looked up, stared in disbelief. They were Doomsayers!
They entered the square and made their way to the statue of Ciru. Nigel followed, watching every move. The Doomsayer carrying the bell mounted the pedestal; he rang the bell loudly. His companions stood at his side and bowed their heads. “Gather to me,” called the Doomsayer. “The time is at hand.”
People in the street stopped and gaped. The man threw back his hood, exposing a haggard, pock-scarred face. Many people drew aside; Nigel shuddered. The scars told that he had once had Plague.
The bell clanged again. “Do not be frightened,” the Doomsayer told his onlookers. “I come to warn you. Heed the Word, the time is come.” In low voices his companions began to chant: “The bell rings! The bell rings!” As though in a trance, their bodies swayed back and forth. People hesitantly trickled closer, curious. A crowd formed. Nigel came and stood at the edge.
The Doomsayer spread his arms out, beckoning for the crowd to move closer. “The Master comes,” he called. “Each day brings His presence closer to the Valley. Already his legions are among us. Hear the Word while there is time.”
“The bell rings!” chanted the others.
The crowd began to stir. Fighting was still raging in the Westland, and they were in no emotional state to deal with this. Many began to jeer and shout. The Doomsayer took it calmly. “Peace, good citizens,” he said. “Hear me out!”
Nigel moved up, intrigued by this ancient cult of dog-worshipers. The man was either extraordinarily brave to face such a hostile crowd, or he was the biggest fool he had ever seen. Just what motivated these fanatics to turn against their own and embrace the enemy left him baffled. The dogs would kill them every bit as cruelly as they would any other man, he knew. But the Doomsayers welcomed them, unafraid.
Most of the crowd began to leave. “Don’t go!” the man implored. “You must listen, learn to accept the Master and his wisdom.”
Nigel pushed himself closer. The crowd stepped aside for the Lord. “How do you know the Master comes?” he asked, fixing his eyes on the man’s own.
The Doomsayer looked at his garb and recognized his station. “Do you seek Truth, my Lord?” he asked.
Nigel nodded. “I seek to learn if what you say is true. Have the dogs found their king? The one who would unite them?”
The Doomsayer eyed him strangely. “But there can be no doubt!” he answered without hesitation. “The Master is come.” He clanged the bell again. And again the others began to chant.
The Doomsayer pointed his long bony hand in the direction of the Southern Forest. “The Word has come from the wood. All Packs trek from their homes to follow, to obey his commands.”
Nigel bit his lip impatiently. He felt annoyed that he was here, debating with a madman. “Yes, yes,” he said tensely. “But how do you know the Master has come? How do you know?”
The man stared at him blankly, as if he did not understand the question. “Look around,” he said at last. “The Signs are everywhere!”
“I see no signs!” shouted someone from the crowd. “Still your vile tongue, Doomsayer! Before I still it for you!”
The Doomsayer put his hands on his hips and scowled. “He has arisen in the Forest,” he called back, “and come to claim His throne! I speak to you to save you, to show you the Way. To give you Knowledge.”
Some began to laugh. An egg splattered at the Doomsayer’s feet. He shook his fists. “Fools!” he berated them. “The Master brings us Peace. He brings us Love. You have been warned yet you do not see! You are all blind!”
More eggs were thrown. One splattered across the Doomsayer’s face. Nigel winced. He knew if the man did not stop his raving, there would be violence.
A burly farmer pushed his way to the front of the crowd, shoved aside the chanting Doomsayers, and glared at their leader. His face was red with anger, his hands were shaking. “My sister and her family were murdered in the Westland!” he shouted. “They were killed by your beloved dogs. If you utter one more word of your garbage I’ll kill you myself!”
The Doomsayer showed no fear. He gazed into the farmer’s face. “They brought their deaths upon themselves,” he said. “Had they humbled themselves before the Pack and sought Wisdom, they would have been spared.”
The farmer’s eyes blazed. He jumped on the pedestal, drawing back his fist. A gust of wind suddenly whipped through the crowd. The Doomsayer laughed.
“Do you see?” he shouted, to no one in particular. “It is a Sign! The Fates have sent us a Sign!”
“The bell rings!” chanted his companions. Their eyes rolled about as they waved their arms madly.
The farmer stepped back, suddenly afraid.
“Now will you believe? Can you still deny —”
A rock was thrown. It hit the Doomsayer squarely across his mouth. He reeled, then managed to regain his balance. With the back of his dirty hand he wiped the blood away. Already a large purple swelling showed. He fixed his eyes over the faces of his onlookers. And with bitterness in his voice, he dared to recite from the ancient Prophesy. “And from the wood a King shall arise, and the world will cower at his might!”
The crowd became quiet, stunned. He had spoken of things never taken lightly, especially now.
The farmer became enraged. “Kill him!” he screamed, as he grabbed his walking stick and hit the Doomsayer in the stomach. The man doubled over in pain. A dozen other angered citizens pounced on the Doomsayers’ companions and beat them mercilessly. Nigel tried to stop them but was pushed to the ground in the fray. An old woman spat and looked at him. “They deserve to die!” she cried.
The Doomsayers covered their faces, trying to shield them from the blows. They began to whimper, then plead, then beg. But the mob paid no heed. With sticks and rocks they pounded at the already crippled bodies.
Nigel tried to pick himself up. Frantically he looked about for help. Just then six Royal Guardsmen came racing from the side street. Swords drawn, they raced into the mob and pushed the attackers to the ground. In seconds the beatings had stopped; the farmer stood aside. The leader of the soldiers yanked the farmer by his tunic and sent him flying. “Arrest that man!” he barked. Two soldiers grabbed him and held their swords at his neck. The farmer stared with wild eyes. If he so much as squirmed their blades would cut him down. “Why am I to be arrested?” he asked shakily. “I have done nothing wrong.”
He scowled at the broken Doomsayer beside him. “This swine dared to taunt us with the Prophesy.”
The commander glared at him, stopping him in mid-sentence. “Are you so frightened that the rantings of a Doomsayer make you a savage?”
The farmer turned his face away, ashamed. Numb, he let his hands be bound and said nothing more as they dragged him from the square.
The soldier looked at the rest of the attackers. “Have you no shame?” he said. “This man can do you no harm. He is sick.”
“Shall we arrest them all?” asked another soldier.
The commander shook his head. “No,” he said. “It would serve no purpose. Let them go. Clear the square.”
His men hustled the attackers away and sent the women and children down other streets. A minute later Central Square was all but deserted. Meanwhile Nigel had picked himself up and shaken the dust from his tunic.
“Are you all right, my Lord?” asked the commander.
Nigel shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. Then he looked to the three beaten men. Two of them were writhing and coughing blood. “But you’d better send a physician for them.”
A soldier kneeled beside the body of the speaker. His face was a pulp of black and purple. He lay stretched out, motionless. “This one won’t need a physician,” the soldier said. “He’s dead.”
The commander grimaced and kicked the bell into the street. “I knew this man,” he said. “He was harmless. Usually we just chase him away, keep him out of trouble.”
Nigel gazed dumbly at the glazed eyes and shuddered. “How can we blame the man that did this to him?” he said, half to himself. “The farmer was frightened. He lashed out in the only way he could.”
The commander sheathed his sword, sighing. “I know,” he said. “We’re all frightened. Were I in the crowd, I might have wanted to kill him myself.”
Nigel stood there, speechless. Now even the soldiers, the backbone of the Empire, despair, he thought bitterly. Antonius was right, more than he realized. The Haven was rapidly losing its will to endure. The gloom had already set in.
“You’re Lord Nigel, aren’t you?”
Nigel snapped out of his thought and looked at the commander. “Yes.”
The soldier eyed him awkwardly, almost as if embarrassed. “It’s not my place to say this,” he told him, “but I want you to know; if I had my way I would gladly let you lead an expedition into the forest. I would even join you, if I could. It’s our only chance.”
Nigel stared at him. “Do you, a soldier, believe that it could succeed?”
The commander shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I agree that we must take the chance. It’s worth the risk.”
“What’s your name?”
The soldier bowed slightly. A smile crossed his dark face. “Lawrence, my Lord. Commander Lawrence.” Nigel beamed. More than any other group, it was the military who opposed him the most. But if someone like Lawrence agreed, there must be others. And if there were, perhaps he still had a chance after all. He looked deeply into Lawrence’s eyes. They seemed warm, sincere. “If you mean what you said, I’ll see to it that you join me.”
Lawrence seemed puzzled. “Then has the Council relented and given you permission?”
Nigel forced a smile. “Not yet,” he said. “But if what I suspect proves to be true, they’ll have to. As you said, it’s our only chance.”
The soldier stood bewildered. Then with a quick bow he turned and led his men from the square.
Nigel stood alone for a while. He gazed up at the statue of Ciru. A long face with a short, clipped beard stared down at him. For an instant it seemed that there was a glimmer in the cold stone eyes. Nigel leaned over, touched the base of the statue and rubbed his hand along the marble. And he felt renewed, ready to go back to the Elder, back to the Council — and spit in their eyes. His depression lifted, his stomach began to growl. And for the first time in days he was hungry. But food would have to wait at least a little longer. There was something he had to do.
Then with a smile he threw back his head and strode from the square.
CHAPTER SIX
Criers ran through the streets and spread the word: “The dogs have withdrawn. The Westland is free!” People poured out into the squares and boulevards; cheers filled the air. Everywhere there was celebration. The enemy had fallen back into the forest. The Empire was intact.
But inside the Great Hall the news was taken far more somberly. Guards stood beside the arched doors as only members of the Council, their aides and advisors were given entry. The mood of the Lords was grim.
The hall itself was huge. Great windows in the front opened out onto a spacious veranda. Central Square, as well as the north wall, could be clearly seen. In the center of the room was a heavy wooden table, about twenty feet long, and around it twenty-eight chairs. Made of the finest woods, each one had been carved by hand by the best artisans and craftsmen. The walls were adorned with huge tapestries depicting life in the Valley. Some were more than a thousand years old. The floors were polished stone, a deep rich green like the grass in the meadow.
One by one the members took their seats. Servants placed silver goblets filled with wine at every chair. Bowls of dried fruit and nuts were set down at various spots around the table. Nigel took his seat, nodding to those at his side. Moments later the room was full, and the blue-tunicked guards closed the door.
All rose as three men took their places at the head of the table. On the left sat Sean, a large burly man with deep-set eyes that crinkled at the corners. Long red hair, sprinkled with gray, curled at the nape of his neck. His tunic was dark blue and on his collar was fastened a silver eagle, insignia of his rank: Commander of the Haven’s forces. Sean sat back in his chair and rubbed his forefinger along the side of his drooping moustache.
On the right sat Assan, half-brother to Elon, and next in line to become Elder; he was short and stocky, with a powerful build. His neck was thick, his brows bushy and black. Like Sean, he had been a soldier, but a deep wound in his leg had cut short what had promised to be a brilliant career. Though his body had long since healed, he carried the scars of battle both in his mind and in his heart. Well liked, especially by the military, he was a man to be reckoned with. Save for the Elder himself, he was the most influential man in the Empire.
The center chair was the most imposing of all. Thronelike, it stood far taller than any of the others. And there was hidden meaning behind this: the Elder was a man among men, able to rise above the petty squabbles that constantly plagued them.
Old in years yet young in spirit, Elon cut a striking figure. His face was deeply lined; his eyes were sharp and piercing, showing a deep intelligence. Elon was a man of many worlds, part scholar, part man of science, part mystic. Deeply religious, he accepted the will of the Fates — yet he also knew that men must learn to shape their own destiny. But his many sides did not end here. Well schooled in both tactics and strategy, his battle sense was highly regarded. In his youth he had been master of both the bow and sword.
In short he was an unusual man, one who blended together all the diverse elements of the Haven’s society. In debate he saw the merit of both sides of an argument and was able to make his decision accordingly. He understood the natural rivalry between soldier and scholar and did all he could to mend the rift.
The hall became still and quiet as Elon rose and placed his hands on the table. One by one he searched the faces of the anxious Lords around him. “I won’t waste any time,” he said after a while. “You all know why this meeting was called.”
The Lords stirred and gazed at each other. Elon waited for them to settle down. “As is common knowledge by now,” he said dryly, “the enemy has left the Valley, gone back to the forest. What we have to ask ourselves here today is why.”
“I don’t understand,” someone mumbled.
Elon frowned, pursing his lips. He gestured for the soldier standing at the end of the hall to come forward.
Des snapped to attentio
n and walked to the table. His tunic was soiled and ragged, his face drawn and haggard.
“If you will, Captain Desmond,” said the Elder, “please recount for us what happened today.”
Nigel rose about three inches out of his chair. A broad grin crossed his face; he breathed a sigh of relief. Des was alive after all!
The soldier cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back and stood at ease. He stared coldly at the Council. “The enemy victory was overwhelming,” he began. “The Westland garrison was shattered. The soldiers that survived stayed behind with me and tried to block their advance. But it was useless.”
“Yes, yes,” said Elon impatiently. “But what I want you to tell us is what happened after — when we counterattacked.”
Des nodded grimly, wetting his lips with his tongue. “There’s not much to tell,” he said. “No sooner had our forces grouped to charge than the enemy began to retreat. I never saw anything like it. They didn’t even give us a fight. They scampered out of sight right before our eyes.”
The Lords stirred again. What Des was telling them was unheard of. Elon turned to Sean. “What do you make of this?” he asked.
Sean rubbed his chin and leaned back. “Perhaps their strategy was hit-and-run. Perhaps they never intended to stay.”
Des shook his head, looking directly at his general. “I’ve never known dogs to relinquish gains before,” he said, “at least not without hundreds of our men at their heels.”
Sean nodded. In most cases, he knew, the dogs would fight to the death rather than give up a foot of territory. “But their losses were heavy, were they not?”
Des agreed. “Very heavy, Lord.”
“Then perhaps they fled to the wood only to regroup, or await reinforcements for another thrust.”
Elon waved his hand, discounting this. “I doubt that,” he said. “We heard Desmond’s first assessment; the enemy was in complete control. They would still be in control had they stayed.”
Assan folded his arms and half-closed his eyes. “Is there anyone here who might give us a clue as to why they would abandon their gains and in the middle of night run back to the forest?”
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