The Haven

by Graham Diamond

  With a heavy heart he sat down on one of the rows of slat benches and closed his eyes. His head hung low on his chest; his hands, open on his lap, glistened with beads of sweat.

  “You’re Desmond, aren’t you?”

  Des looked up, startled. Who was this beautiful maiden? He had thought himself alone! “My Lady?”

  The girl blushed and raised her veil. He had seen her somewhere ... Dark eyes flashed sadly. “You — are Desmond?”

  Des nodded. “Yes, my Lady. Did you want to speak with me?”

  She touched his arm ever so slightly. “I — I only wanted to wish you luck.”

  “Well, thank you,” he said, forcing a smile. He was surprised, but pleased.

  “And I want you to know my thoughts go with you, even now.”

  A trace of a tear welled in the corner of one eye.

  “Are you weeping for me?” he asked. “I don’t even know you.”

  The girl lowered her gaze, avoiding his stare. “You’ve probably heard my name. They call me Leila.”

  Pain flashed through his mind, a recent hurt reopened. “Lawrence,” he whispered. “You were to be his wife.”

  Leila nodded and wiped her eyes. “He often spoke of you in the days before you left,” she said. “I want you to know that he loved you like a brother.”

  Des trembled, took a deep breath. “And I loved him. He was a good soldier, one of the best.”

  Leila turned to go.

  “Please, stay a moment,” he said, reaching out for her.

  “Why?” she asked, facing him again. “Lawrence is dead. What’s left to be said?”

  “I — I don’t know. But I lost the one I loved, too.”

  “Lady Beth,” said Leila.

  Beth’s face flashed in front of his eyes. “Did you know her?”

  “I’d met her occasionally, at court. She was a beautiful woman.”

  He tried to hide the hurt from showing, but he sighed deeply. Leila stood quietly, letting it pass. Another time, another place, she would have tried to comfort him, but her own grief was too fresh. “Goodbye, Des,” she said under her breath, and walked swiftly from the room.

  Des stood in the shadows and watched her leave. “Leila,” he said softly, “if I live to see you again, I’ll remember this meeting.”

  But she was too far away to have heard.

  *

  As the sun rose, the air was filled with the sound of trumpets. The Great Gate of the city slowly opened and a team of thirty mules strained and pulled their ropes. Six huge wheels began to turn, creaking and moaning under the weight of the platform. The mule-skinners beat the animals fiercely with whips and led them on. It took almost a full hour for the platform to be dragged from the walls and brought down the road that led to the Plain. And from their camp thousands of eyes stared in amazement.

  An honor guard of ten mounted soldiers escorted it. Tagg, in the lead, rode ahead, and once within clear sight of the Plain, dismounted. The platform lumbered on behind him for some minutes and then stopped. Tagg stepped forward as a Pack of Scouts spread out before him. Then they, too, stopped.

  He wiped his brow and withdrew a scroll. Carefully he unrolled it and began to read. The dogs stood back, poised to strike. Tagg cleared his throat.

  “We, the men of the Haven, present this gift to Toland, King of the Dogs, Master of All,” he read, hands trembling. “It is given as a gift to please him and to show our respect for his might. If the Master is pleased we ask only that we be allowed to serve him. We await his emissary to accept our peaceful surrender.” Then he looked at the wary Scouts.

  “Hail Toland!” he called. “Hail the Master!”

  With that he bowed deeply and walked boldly to his horse, his back to the Scouts. Any second they could strike and kill him, he knew, but he must show no fear. Slowly he mounted, breathed with relief and led his men back inside the walls. The gate shut with a clang. The statue stood alone at the edge of the Plain.

  A hundred dogs surrounded it. They were speechless, they gazed in disbelief. This was no mere gift, no mere statue; it was a god! Never had they expected anything like it. The head, alone eight feet high, looked down on them so lifelike they thought it would speak. It had a long pointed snout and fangs of ivory, razor-sharp, protruding from its upper lip. Its mouth seemed to snarl, as if barking commands. Its ears were triangular and pointed at the tips, the sign of royal blood. All along its body blazed a coat of deep gray, each hair carved from the wood. Its paws were massive, legs sleek and agile — it looked as if poised to leap. But the real impact was its eyes. Piercing, almost alive, but made of marble, the pupils were a mixture of black and blood-red. Staring, taunting, they fixed intently on any who looked into them.

  “Magnificent!”

  “A gift worthy of the Fates!”

  In awe, they paced around it, afraid to come too close. Then as shock wore off, they took the ropes between their teeth, barked at the mules who stood shivering, and led it down into the Plain for the Master to see.

  *

  Toland walked around the platform time and again, deep in thought. Lepidus stood with his mouth gaping. “This is indeed a wondrous thing,” muttered Matsui, his gaze fixed keenly on the eyes. “It hypnotizes me.” Margraf, the warlord, gaped at the fangs. “Indeed men must fear us to have constructed such a thing.”

  Lepidus and Matsui nodded, but Toland kept silent.

  Kindari looked to his brother. His face was filled with fear. “I am frightened,” he said. “It is too great, too wondrous. Surely men have designed it to use against us.”

  “Are you frightened by a piece of wood?” scoffed Margraf.

  Kindari looked menacingly at him. “You spoke against receiving the gift,” he said, “and now you admire it, stare at it in adulation. Are you a fool?” He turned to Toland. “Destroy it,” he asked, almost pleadingly.

  Toland listened, still deep in thought. At last he spoke. “Now that I have seen it, I don’t want it destroyed either. It is too great a jewel. I never expected such a thing.”

  “But you agreed that there is treachery behind it! While we stand who knows what the men plot? We must be rid of it!”

  Toland smiled. “When the Haven is destroyed the gift can no longer harm us. But for now I agree with your caution. It must be kept far from camp, and guarded every moment by Scouts.”

  “Do you think it will come to life?” laughed Matsui. “Will it attack us in the middle of the night?”

  Toland flashed his eyes darkly. “I desire to keep it,” he said. “But I do not trust it while men yet live. Alert the Night-Birds, make ready our legions. We prepare to attack. Tomorrow I shall send the emissary the Haven seeks — and bear them false tidings.”

  The thirst for battle rekindled in their bellies. “Good,” said Kindari. “We have waited too long already.”

  *

  Assan donned his armor carefully, making sure everything was strapped tightly. Then he drew his blade, unused for many years, and sharpened it on his stone. Bela sat beside him and poured a glass of wine. There was a sharp knock on the door.

  “Enter!”

  Tagg strode in and bowed deeply. “It’s done,” he said with a smile. “The dogs have accepted it.”

  “Good, good,” said the Elder, handing the soldier a cup of wine.

  “Are the tunnels ready?”

  “All is set,” said Assan. “The wolves already cluster a thousand feet outside the walls. Three hundred archers and footmen are gathering to take their places beside them. And the Royal Guard stand ready to charge across the Plain. The birds hide in the trees, scattered across the Valley.”

  Bela smiled nervously. “So Elon’s plan is set.”

  The new Elder nodded. “He was a great man, far wiser than I. If I can be but a shadow of what he was, I’ll be grateful.”

  Well spoken, thought Bela, thinking perhaps he had misjudged Assan after all. Then he stood and held his cup high. “A toast,” he said. “To Desmond and all the others
who lay concealed in the belly of the monster.”

  “Aye,” said Assan. “May the Fates be with them tonight. Their timing must be precise. There will be only scant moments to reach the Master and slay him, and just as little time for our army to sweep down and rescue them.”

  “To Desmond!” they said, and then they drank.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  By the position of the moon Des reckoned the hour close to midnight. Both the men and the wolves sat motionless across the rough slat benches against the beams. Des peered over to Marco and nodded.

  Silently the wolf slinked from his place and made his way along the wall. There was a tiny slit carved, no bigger than a thimble. Marco arched his body up and peeked outside. He spent a long time there, holding his breath and straining to glimpse in every direction.

  Des crawled carefully along the floors and came beside him. “Well?” he whispered. “What can you see?”

  Marco answered without turning his eye from the peephole. “Scouts. At least a dozen of them. They’re marching up and down at the edge of the platform.”

  Des pursed his lips and drew a deep breath of stagnant air. His mind was racing. He was clearly worried, but tried to hide it from the anxious faces of his men who watched. They had counted on being taken to the very heart of the camp, someplace where they could strike at the Master easily. Instead the cunning dog had the statue brought far away, to the perimeter, almost at the edge of the forest.

  It was hot, terribly hot. Des wiped his brow with his arm; he scratched at his nose nervously. The small vents cut into the walls gave only the slightest fresh air. Breathing, for all of them, had become difficult. And the longer they were forced to stay here, the worse it would become.

  Now he would have to make a decision. They could try to manage as best they could and wait for tomorrow, hoping to be taken closer to the heart of the camp, or they could take the risk now, try to slay the Scouts quickly and somehow make a frantic dash for the Master tonight, as planned. Des frowned. Either way was a dilemma. To stay would mean having to tolerate another full day in these close quarters, and that might prove too much. Yet to jump from the statue now, even if they could deal successfully with the Scouts, would leave them exposed and would make reaching Toland all but impossible. Des’s brow furrowed with worry. It was his decision to make, and what he did could alter the destiny of the world. Such a thought made him shudder.

  Marco looked down from the peephole. He waited patiently for the soldier to speak.

  “Tell me, Marco, would there be a chance of killing all these Scouts before any could run and warn the Warriors?”

  Before answering, Marco returned to the hole and studied the surrounding terrain carefully. The statue had been dragged along the slope of a steep hill, devoid of trees or bushes but filled with high deep grass. Beyond it, though, were dense clusters of pines and firs. And the meadow that led out toward the Plain was dense with foliage. Apart from these watchful Scouts, he could not see a single dog anywhere.

  “We can strike without being seen, I think,” the wolf said at last, turning back to Des. “But we would have to be fast. It’ll only take the blink of an eye before they realize what we’re up to. And a dozen Scouts will be hard to catch.”

  Des stared glumly about. This was a fine mess, he knew. If even one dog managed to escape, their plan would fail. Toland would be warned and he and Des’s band would be slaughtered. All would have been for nothing. “I guess we’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he sighed.

  Marco shook his head. “I would caution against that,” he growled. “Tomorrow I’m sure we’ll find things no different than they are now. It’s clear the Master is suspicious of his gift. That’s why he had it brought here. I doubt tomorrow he’ll change his mind and bring us closer.”

  Des fidgeted. Marco was probably right. But not only that, what of Assan and his army hiding in the tunnels? How long could they wait? And the hiding birds, in daylight, would risk being spotted by the dogs. And if they were, Toland would know that a trap was being set.

  “There could be one chance,” said Marco.

  Des looked at him hopefully. Right now any suggestion was sorely needed.

  “Men would be far too slow in the attack,” continued Marco. “But wolves might be swift enough to pull it off. I think we should wait for a few more hours as we are. Then, in the early hours before dawn, even the Scouts will become weary. Their senses won’t be as sharp as now. Some might begin to doze; others might wander restlessly about. With luck, my Hunters can spring on them before they realize what’s happening.”

  Des chewed at his lip. It was risky business and he did not like the idea of leaving all the fighting to the wolves. But it seemed there was no choice. “All right,” he said at last. “We’ll try it your way. We’ll sit it out for another few hours and hope you’re right that the Scouts tire. But we’d better hope that these Scouts aren’t replaced in the middle of the night with fresh ones.”

  Marco nodded grimly. That was a possibility he had not considered.

  *

  The air inside became worse. The band sat stony-faced and solemn, not moving, except to occasionally wipe the beads of sweat from their faces. The moon hung low now, covered by a thin haze. Hours had passed since Marco’s plan was discussed, and each hour seemed forever.

  At long last Marco again slinked down from his place and crept up to the peephole. He glanced back at Des and smiled. “I was right,” he whispered. “The Scouts are becoming sleepy. And they haven’t been relieved. This is the best time we’ll have.”

  Des stood and flexed his muscles. His back and arms ached from being cramped, and so would everyone else’s, he knew. And that would not help in the coming search for the Master, when all of them would have to be as swift and agile as they ever had been.

  He walked to the middle of the planked floor and beckoned to Sinjon, who was sitting uncomfortably against the corner. The wily youth sprang up silently, wiping his face with his sleeve.

  Des kneeled down beside the carefully hidden hatch that was built between three long planks. He held his breath as Sinjon kneeled next to him. Then, with a quick, jerky movement, Sinjon unbolted the hatch.

  Click!

  In normal circumstances such a sound would hardly have been audible, but in the eerie silence of this night, it sounded like the clatter of a hundred horses. Everyone froze, afraid even to breathe.

  Marco arched against the peephole again and looked below. Several of the Scouts had picked up their ears; one or two had moved closer to the platform and were sniffing at it. But they detected nothing. A few moments later they had taken up their old positions.

  Des glanced fearfully at Marco. The wolf shook his head. The soldiers all sighed with relief.

  Inch by inch Des and Sinjon slowly slid the hatch back. Soon it was wide enough for a wolf to leap through. They were met by a gust of fresh air, the first they had had since the morning before. It felt wonderfully cool as it rushed against their bodies. Then Des and Sinjon stepped back.

  Marco and six of his best Hunters crept forward across the floor. Without speaking, Des offered them good luck with his eyes. Marco met the gaze and smiled. Then he hunched back on his hind legs, spread his forepaws out, and sprang.

  A Scout caught the smell. He looked up in terror as the big wolf lunged at his throat. The other wolves swept like lightning; the Scouts made ready to run. But even before the Hunters could pounce or give chase, all, wolves and dogs alike, were suddenly and violently thrown to the ground. There was a great crash of thunder and the earth itself began to tremble. Even the statue began to rock.

  The Scouts bounded up, terrified. What magic was this? They paid no heed to the wolves, who were every bit as frightened and bewildered as they were, and scampered in the direction of the Plain.

  Des jumped from the hatch and landed hard on the ground, beside the edge of the platform. He and Marco exchanged perplexed glances. Des looked anxiously to the sky, expecting thunder
clouds above his head, but there were none. The sky was clear! The stars were shining!

  And then the earth began to shake again. Des fell back just as an horrendous roar knocked through his head. He was sent sprawling across the ground. And above him the statue began to creak and moan; the great wheels of the platform began to turn.

  “Get out!” he screamed.

  A host of men and wolves scrambled from the hatch, falling in every direction. And as they came there was a quick succession of three more claps of thunder, each one louder and closer than the last.

  “What devil’s work is this?” cried Sinjon, trying to stand. His face was pale and his eyes were wide.

  Des stumbled up. “I — I don’t know —”

  Again they were sent heaving to the floor. The trees began to sway as the tremors in the earth became more violent. The wolves began to huddle and whimper, frightened out of their wits. The sky suddenly lit up as a huge ball of flaming red and orange shot to the heavens. Higher and higher it rose, leaving a trail of fire and flame in its wake.

  “It’s the end of the world!” cried one of the men. And the soldiers began to panic. But even before any had regained their legs to run, another of the terrible thunder-crashes jolted the ground and sent them rolling. Des tumbled away from the platform. He lay still for a second, waiting for the tremor to pass. His eyes gaped at the statue. He rubbed at them with shaking hands. The statue loomed over him, and it was coming closer.

  “By the Fates!” he yelled. “Run for shelter! The statue is falling!”

  As numb as they were, everyone began to scramble on hands and knees. The wolves cowered together, then leaped down the slope. The platform began to groan under the weight as the dog-monster weaved and bobbed. And again the thunder crashed. The statue leaned over to the side and wavered. Another ball of flame swiftly raced to the far corners of the sky. The platform tilted farther and then fell on its side. Beams smashed; splinters of wood flew everywhere. The men covered their faces.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” came a shout.