The Haven

by Graham Diamond

  The first of the riders passed swiftly through the Gate, right behind came another, and behind him still another. The two sleek wolves jumped over the bodies of slain dogs and also made it safely. The last rider made it just in time. A Pack at his heels, he just made it through before the Gate was slammed shut. A mighty volley fell upon the dogs and caught many in their tracks before they could retreat. Seconds later the howling had ceased, the Plain once again was silent.

  But inside the city it was different; cheers carried throughout, criers ran through the streets and spread the word: Captain Desmond and his band had returned from the forest.

  *

  Gwenn woke with a start, threw a robe over her shoulders and ran to the window. Outside, a crowd had begun to gather. People were singing and laughing, most still in their nightclothes. Bewildered, she rushed from her room and down the stairs.

  Lord Saul was dressed; he stood with his hands behind his back, gazing from the parlor window. Gwenn rushed to his side and stared at him. “Father, what is it?”

  Saul smiled, gesturing to the window. “Look at them,” he said. “They can’t believe it! And I can’t either.”

  “Believe what? What’s going on?”

  Her father laughed and squeezed her hand. “It’s Des, Gwenn. He’s back, I think they’re all back.”

  Gwenn’s heart leaped into her throat. Before Saul could stop her she was out of the door, running down the courtyard and into the street. The merrymakers were all about her, clapping their hands and carrying on. A portly man wearing a long nightcap and robe smiled when he saw her. “Isn’t it wonderful, my Lady? Have you heard the story? They raced right through the Master’s army.”

  Gwenn tugged at his sleeve. “How many returned?” she asked. “Was Lord Nigel among them?”

  The man looked at her strangely. “I — I don’t rightly know, my Lady.” Gwenn pushed him aside, jostled among the crowd. “How many came back?” she cried aloud, but those who heard did not know, and those who might have known did not seem to hear.

  Gwenn pressed her lips and looked about. At the end of the street there was a soldier.

  She ran to him and pulled at his collar.

  “My Lady?”

  “How many came back?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Four, my Lady, I think. They say one was killed outside the walls.”

  Gwenn gasped. Four! Eleven had gone! She put her hand to her mouth. “Which four? Which four were they?”

  The soldier was taken aback. “Captain Desmond was one, of course,” he said. “And I think one of the others was Sinjon.”

  “And Nigel?” she cried. “Was Lord Nigel among them?”

  The soldier cast his eyes down to avoid her stare. “I don’t think so, my Lady. They said four soldiers and two wolves.”

  Gwenn felt her head swim; the world spun around her. Without listening to what the soldier was saying she leaned with her back against a wall and began to sob.

  The Great Hall was filled to capacity; Council Guards had a hard time holding back the crowds that pressed outside. Those who were fortunate enough to get in were lucky merely to find a place to stand. And there was so much noise that Elon had to threaten to clear the hall if some order was not restored. It took some doing but finally the chamber began to quiet down. Elon stood from his chair and cleared his throat. “This is a marvelous day,” he said, “and I wanted as many of you as possible to be here. As you all know, the impossible has been done. The forest has been conquered. But the tale is not mine to tell. Captain, please come forward.”

  Surrounded by smartly dressed Guardsmen, Des pushed his way to the center of the room. His face was haggard and weather-beaten — he looked like he had not slept in a week. But there was a sparkle in his eyes and a look of pride in the way he held himself as he began to speak. He glanced briefly at the questioning faces of the Lords seated at the table and caught a glimpse of Gwenn standing behind her father. Her eyes were red and puffy. Des wondered why she had been crying. One last look at the crowd, then he turned to the Elder.

  “It’s a long story I have to tell,” he said, “and for now I’m not going to give all the details. The journey was perilous: many times we found ourselves in danger.” He drew a few pieces of sheepskin from his pouch and handed them to Eton. “These are the maps I made, my Lord. They detail our route through the Northern Forest and the mountains. And they show the way to the New Lands.”

  New Lands! The words rang with magic. The chamber broke into cheers. Again Elon had to call for quiet. He took the maps gratefully and said: “I’m proud of you, Captain. You did more than anyone dared hope for.”

  Des shook his head. “Not I, my Lord. It was Nigel who changed our route, and Hector who led us through the mountains. They are the ones to be thanked.” Elon nodded, lowering his eyes and his voice. “And I wish they had come back to be honored. I won’t ask you now to tell us how they died.”

  Des looked at him oddly. “Died? But they’re not dead, Lord! At this very moment they still dig among the Ruins.”

  Gwenn gasped. “He’s alive!” she cried.

  “Why, yes,” said Des, looking at her in dawning comprehension. “Have no fear, my Lady. They’re all alive. Nigel, Basil, crafty old Rolf. And Hector, too. He stayed behind with them.”

  As the crowds applauded and cheered, Elon sat back and sighed. He could not have wished for better news. Bela stood at his side and grinned. “So Nigel was right all along,” he said.

  Des nodded grimly. “And we were wrong. We were all wrong. We the soldiers of the Haven, the protectors of the Empire, were badly mistaken. The forest is not endless, and it can be conquered.”

  Elon smiled, even as a tear rolled down his face. “Captain, I want a full report to be given in great detail, but not now. I want you to have some food and a long rest.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. I am tired. Perhaps later.” Elon stood, held out his arms and waited for the noise to subside. “These brave men have risked their lives to prove what old fools like myself never thought possible,” he said. “And just as they succeeded against overwhelming odds, so shall we. I promise it.”

  Assan glanced up at his brother. “Then you have a plan?”

  The old Elder smiled wryly. He had been working on one for weeks, since the night he was told of Sean’s defeat. It was a risky plan, though, one that many might scoff at. Daring as it was dangerous, it was perhaps the only one that might work. “Give me a little more time,” he said at last. “There are many details to be worked out. But for now, I call this meeting to an end.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Three days back and Des found himself as restless as ever. He wanted something to happen, some sort of action, anything to feel that something, no matter how-trivial, was being accomplished. And it was for that reason he asked to be put back on duty.

  The afternoon sun hung brilliantly against the western sky as he walked along the parapet of the wall. He shaded his eyes and glanced out at the Plain. A dark mass of dogs, stretching for leagues, seemed to stare back at him. For days they had not made any advance, had not even stirred from their camp. He wondered why, and what they were up to. A few Scouts still patroled the Plain, boldly in sight of the archers, but other than that the Plain was as calm as a spring night. He, like everyone else, was pleased at this respite from constant harassment, but still fearful of what it portended.

  As he reached the long shadow of the tower at the edge of the wall he saw Tagg busily dressing down a couple of youthful bowmen for some minor infraction. But when Tagg saw Des he dismissed the archers and greeted him with a big grin. “Ah, Des. Come to relieve me, eh?”

  Des nodded. “Not until sundown though,” he said. “I just came up early to have a look around. See if anything was going on.”

  Tagg stretched out his palms and rested them against the wall. “Well, it’s good to have company, anyway. Hey! What the — look at that!”

  Tagg started to gesture wildly at the end of the long wal
l. “Someone’s trying to go over!”

  “What?” Des leaned over incredulously. At the other end, a hooded man in a dark robe had fastened a rope onto a lock and thrown it over the side. Then he climbed along the crenelated wall, took hold of the rope and began to lower himself down.

  Des and Tagg glanced at each other in total disbelief. “What’s that fool doing?” cried Tagg. “Is he crazy? The Scouts’ll track him and butcher him!”

  Des leaned over as far as he could and tried to get the man’s attention. “You there,” he called, “you on the rope! Come back! No one is allowed out of the city!” The hooded man, already more than halfway down, paid him no attention. Hand over hand, he lowered himself as fast as he could.

  “Shall I shoot him, Captain?” shouted one of the archers. “I could make an easy shot from here.”

  Des looked up, perplexed. Not just one, but ten of Tagg’s archers were leaning from the tower, crossbows at their shoulders. They were waiting only for the command.

  “Hold off a minute,” said Des, trying to think fast.

  “The fool must be stopped,” said Tagg. “I’ll give the order.”

  Des looked at him angrily. “No you won’t! I relieved you, remember? Those archers are under my command now. And I’ll not be so quick to order a man’s death.” As Tagg stood with his mouth open, Des leaned over the side again. He cupped his hands. “Come back,” he called. “This is the last warning I’ll give you! If you don’t I’ll have my bowmen shoot —”

  The hooded man jumped down the last few meters, landing hard on the ground. He threw back his hood, exposed a shaven head and shook his fists at the anxious soldier. “Fools!” he yelled. “You’re all fools!” And to Des’s astonishment he raced toward the new road, flaying his hands in the air.

  “It’s still not too late!” cried Des. “Come back!”

  Again the man turned. “I seek to save all our lives,” he called, “I seek the Master’s Wisdom.”

  Tagg stared at Des. “Good Heavens!” he said, “the fool’s a Doomsayer. A bloody Doomsayer!”

  “He’s almost out of range, sir,” shouted the archer. “Shall I shoot?”

  “Let the fool be,” snapped Tagg. “Put your bows away. Why waste the arrows?”

  Des stood gaping, still in shock. “The dogs’ll cut him to pieces.”

  “He thinks they’ll treat him like an honored guest,” said Tagg. “But who cares? I’d like to round up all the bloody Doomsayers and throw the lot of them off the wall. Off the high tower, if I had my way.”

  Des hardly heard as Tagg was speaking. He kept his eyes on the man, watching as he moved along the road out onto the open Plain. He saw as a small group of Scouts came out from behind the trees and surrounded him. “He is crazy,” muttered Des.

  Tagg leaned over beside him and called: “Hey, you! Crazyman! You’d better run while you can!”

  It seemed that Crazyman had heard and was shouting something back, but they couldn’t hear what it was. All they could do was watch. Des closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Tagg spat into the breeze. “Don’t waste pity on him,” he said. “He brought his misery upon himself.”

  Des peered up at his friend; he saw the coldness in his eyes. “Do you know what they’ll do to him?”

  Tagg nodded and smiled grimly. “Rip the skin from his bones, I expect.”

  “That’s right,” said Des, “Only they’ll do it one layer at a time.”

  The Doomsayer stood brazenly enough, though his knees were quivering as the Scouts circled him, sniffing their noses at him. But they were so stunned by his strange behavior that none made a move to attack. They would wait for orders; a man such as this should not be killed at once.

  Just then, a large fierce Warrior came bounding up from the Plain. The Scouts saw him and bowed. It was Margraf, Lord of the West, but Crazyman had no way of knowing this; the sight of the Scouts bowing made him certain that this was Toland himself, the Master, who had come, come personally to greet him.

  Crazyman immediately fell to his knees, lowered his forehead to the ground and stretched out his long arms. “Hail the Master!” he cried, “Hail Toland!” And streams of tears ran down his face. “You have finally come, oh Master, come to show us the way.”

  Margraf stared at him, bewildered. What was he talking about? One of the Scouts whispered in his ear and Margraf smiled wickedly. Now he understood. The man thought he was the Master and was literally throwing himself at his paws. He had never seen anything like this, not from men. So at least for a while, he decided to play the part.

  “You may stand,” he said, using the common-tongue. Crazyman got up, smiling through watery eyes.

  “Now then, why have you come here?”

  Crazyman looked at him with trust and love. “But surely you know? To bow before you, Master. To show you that all men do not war with you. There are those among us who honor you, and praise your coming —”

  Margraf was taken aback. Could this really be so? Were there indeed men who believed?

  “We have waited so long for this glorious day to arrive,” continued Crazyman, oblivious to Margraf’s clear surprise, “and now we seek your blessings. Give us Wisdom, oh, Master, fulfill the Prophesy.”

  Margraf tried not to laugh. This man was the biggest fool he had ever seen. Or was he? Perhaps this was some sort of trick, and this man was a spy, a clever spy hiding behind a demented facade. But whichever, he would be dealt with swiftly.

  “I bid you to enter our camp,” growled Margraf. “I know that Toland will be eager to speak with you.”

  Crazyman fidgeted. “Are you not the Master, then?”

  Margraf shook his head. “Merely a humble servant, as are we all,” he said sarcastically. “It is not I who brings the Word to the Valley, but Toland. Now come! The sun is gone and I’m sure you’re hungry.”

  “Indeed!” said Crazyman. “Hungry for Knowledge, for Wisdom.”

  “Then follow me, and share all that we have.”

  Crazyman bowed low. “Thank you. There is so much to see, and so much to bring back to the Haven.”

  Margraf smiled from ear to ear. “And so you shall, my friend. All men shall know of our meeting, that much I assure you. But come! The hour is late and camp is still a good distance away.”

  *

  Des sat with his legs crossed, his back against the tower wall. He picked with his fork at the plate of cold stew, occasionally taking out a small piece and chewing it slowly. It was a long night, he mused, as Tagg had said it would be. But there was more than that on his mind to ruin his appetite. The thought of the Doomsayer weighed heavily. He should have let his archers shoot, he knew that now; yet how could he have given the order to have a man killed? A man!

  He put down the plate, stood up and rested his body against the parapet overlooking the Plain. It was quiet, but through the moonlight he could see the new road and the occasional silhouette that darted across back into the shadows. Scouts.

  A young sentry with a crossbow slung over his right shoulder walked slowly past, pacing up and down, back and forth. “Have the plate taken away, will you?” said Des.

  The sentry nodded and bent down to pick it up. Suddenly there was a distant scream — a shriek, filled with terror. The sentry bounded up and stared wide-eyed. “What was that?”

  Des closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The time had come. “It’s the Doomsayer,” he whispered.

  The sentry gasped. “Fates forgive him,’ he mumbled. “It’s ghastly.”

  Des nodded darkly. “They’re torturing him. To a bloodthirsty animal like the Master, this is sport.”

  The sentry lowered his eyes and shuddered. “I’d rather take my own life than be captured and let them do that.”

  Des shook his head slowly, sadly. Tagg was right again. He should have given the order.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before — before —”

  “Before they let him die?”

  The sentry nodded.

&nbs
p; “They’ll keep him alive as long as possible,” answered Des. “If he dies too fast they’ll consider it lack of skill on the part of the torturers, and then they’ll probably kill them, too.”

  The lad gulped. Des could see that his knees were shaking.

  “Is the Master so — barbaric?”

  Des took a deep breath; he looked carefully at the soldier. He was very young, he realized, certainly not more than eighteen. “How long have you been in the service?” he asked.

  The youth fidgeted. “About six weeks or so, I guess. Ever since we received the news of Sean’s defeat. Everyone was conscripted, but I was glad to join up. I wanted to fight and help defend our Empire.”

  Des frowned. What a noble thought: “Defend the Empire.” And to himself he thought: “What Empire?” All that was left now were these ancient crumbling walls and the thousands who cowered behind them. After a while he spoke. “Have you ever been in combat, then? I mean close combat, where you have to stand alone?”

  The sentry took his eyes from Des’s stare. “No, Captain. The only service I’ve done is here, on the walls.”

  “And how much training did you receive?”

  “About three weeks, Captain.”

  Des tried to hide his shock. It took a good six months to train a Regular, six months of grueling work. What could this boy have learned in three weeks? Was this all that was left of the Haven’s once proud army? “And can you use a sword?”

  The youth beamed. “Yes, Sir! Sword and bow both. Like my father.”

  “Who is your father?” asked Des, scratching his chin.

  The sentry grew sad; his eyes showed a hint of tears. “No one you would know, Captain. Just one of the many hundreds who never came back from the Southern Forest.”

  Des nodded slowly, pressing his lips together. “I see,” he said softly, wanting to put his arms around the lad and explain all the dangers that such a poorly trained soldier was not aware of. But what would be the good? It would only frighten him more. And anyway, he would learn them soon enough. Oh, yes. Soon enough.

  Another terrible scream pierced the air, cutting like a dagger against silk. The sentry looked up. “I wish I could do something,” he said. “Find some way to put him out of his misery.”