“You will excuse me, Durwin. I must hurry to attend to him just now. He will be wroth with himself for his outburst. He will want a cool hand to soothe his brow.”
Durwin bowed, and the beautiful Alinea hurried away with a rustle of her silken skirts. He turned and saw that all eyes had been upon the queen in the moments following Eskevar’s strange address. Durwin smiled as broadly as he knew how, held up his hands, and shouted, with as much cheer as he could command, “Friends, let us enjoy our celebration! There may be trouble to come—so be it! But it is a good day, and we may have need of such joy ere long. So let us fill our hearts with happiness and let care belong to the morrow!”
His hand flourished in the air, and, as if waiting for his cue, the music swelled and filled the garden as the minstrels began to play once more. The children, sensing the momentary ban on their fun had been lifted, burst forth with pent-up high spirits, and their laughter sounded from every corner. In a short while the garden was transformed into a scene of mirth and merriment. The ominous cloud, so sudden and unexpected in appearance, had just as suddenly passed.
Night came on like a dream. Quentin had some vague recollection of a day that seemed to stretch out forever without end. He and Toli had been thrown into the back of one of the wagons to wonder at their fate. There was not a heartbeat throughout the interminable day that he did not relive the horror of their sunrise ordeal.
He had been pulled across the execution ring at the signal of the warlord. Halfway to the bloody spot, he had seen the deathman turn away. He looked around as the warlord was riding through the scattering throng of his soldiers; the ring was melting away. Suddenly he understood that the warlord’s order had been one of dismissal. The executions were over. For some reason, which he would not know until later, he and Toli had been spared. Relief, however, was slow in coming as he watched the giant axe-man walk away rubbing the cruel head of his broadaxe with shreds of the dead man’s clothes.
Shortly after the wagon had begun to rumble and jostle away, Quentin had slumped into a deep sleep, broken only by Toli’s persistent nudging and admonitions to eat. They had, by some chance, been bundled into a wagon bearing provisions taken from Illem. Toli, after managing to loosen his bonds somewhat, had gathered a few foods for them. He was adamant that Quentin eat and regain some small part of his strength for whatever lay ahead.
After a meal of dry grain, strong goat cheese, and hard bread, Quentin had fallen asleep again. It was nearly sunset on Midsummer’s Day before he stirred.
“You have decided to remain a little longer in this world?” Toli asked as Quentin’s eyes opened. They were now sitting amid a careless jumble of food stores in the half-light of the covered wagon.
“We have stopped!” Quentin struggled to sit up, but hot knives shot into his shoulder and arm. He ached all over. “Ow!”
“Rest while you may, Kenta. Yes, we stopped some time ago. I think they are making camp for the night. Soon they will come for provisions.”
“What will happen to us then, I wonder?” He shook his head as he looked at his ever-resourceful friend. “I thought you were dead. You should have escaped while you could.”
Toli smiled brightly back at him. “You know that was impossible. There could be no escape without my Kenta. It is fiyanash—unthinkable.”
“Well, we may both pay with our lives tomorrow, but I am glad you are here with me, Toli. At least Esme escaped.”
“Yes,” Toli said flatly, and Quentin felt as if he had touched an open wound.
“I thought—ahh!” Quentin’s face contorted into a grimace.
“Is there much pain?”
“It comes and goes. I feel as if my bones have been taken out, rumbled together, and replaced one at a time whichever came to hand.”
“I feared you dead when I saw you lashed to the wagon wheel.” He smiled again, and Quentin wondered how he could be cheerful at such a time. “But you were displaying more wisdom and restraint than you usually do. I would have had us free and away from here if not for that wretch of a guard.”
“His life was forfeit for his error.” Quentin paused, thinking again of the hideous spectacle he had witnessed and only narrowly avoided taking part in. “Perhaps it was meant to be a warning to us; perhaps he did not intend to put us to death—just yet anyway.”
“What is important now is that we have time to try again to escape. Tonight will be an excellent opportunity.”
“Tonight?”
Toli nodded. “Midsummer—they will occupy themselves with their revelry. The watch will be relaxed and inattentive. We may have a chance.”
Quentin’s head ached remembering their previous attempt at escape. He seemed to remember something else about Midsummer, something that stirred a brief flutter of pleasure, but it faded even as he struggled to grasp it. “Midsummer. Do you think these . . .”—he did not know what to call them—“these barbarians mark such occasions?”
“There is a fair chance, I would say. Even the Jher observe the Day of the Long Sun. It is so with most peoples; these would be no different.”
“Who are they? Why have they come to Mensandor?”
Before they could ponder the question further, two soldiers appeared at the back of the wagon and pulled out the gate board. The prisoners were yanked out of their nest and each one dragged to a wheel and lashed securely in place, arms outstretched, legs spread and bound to the wheel at the knee. They could not move, except to turn their heads and look at one another helplessly.
The two guards then took up a position close by to enable a tight watch to be kept on their charges. The guards sat a little way off upon a log and stared at them with cold malevolence. It was plain that neither of the guards relished the duty; possibly it was too risky, considering what had happened to one of their own that very morning.
With both soldiers watching them closely, Quentin decided that no movements to free themselves could take place, so he ignored the guards and tried to make sense out of the frantic activity taking place around them.
The army had chosen a flat lea overlooked by a long, low bluff of poplars and beeches on which to camp. Soldiers were busily dragging fallen trees down the hill and pitching them into a great heap in the center of the meadow. Small fires for cooking had already been lit, and the silvery smoke hung in the unmoving evening air. Other soldiers led horses away to a stream somewhere out of sight. Twice Quentin caught a glimpse of the warlord as he rode through the camp, directing the work of his men. He did not so much as glance toward his prisoners.
Soon the bustle throughout the camp decreased as the smell of cooking food wafted from the fires. Soldiers grouped around the fires in tight knots that slowly broke apart into smaller groups. The men sat on the ground with trenches of wood and dipped their hands into their meal. Quentin and Toli could hear their smacking lips and noisy slurping as they licked their platters.
Quentin decided to try to count the number of soldiers in the party. There were twenty cooking fires scattered across the lea, and by his best estimation each served a hundred or more men. There were more moving about the perimeter, employed in tending horses, gathering firewood, and various other chores. In this body there were at least two thousand soldiers, possibly many more.
He also noted that the warlord maintained a special bodyguard of fifty or so men who occupied themselves near his circular, dome-shaped tent. They sat apart from the others and did none of the menial duties of the rest of the soldiers.
As Quentin watched, a man emerged from the tunnel-like opening of the tent and came toward them. Even from a distance Quentin could see that there was something different about the man; he was vaguely unlike the other soldiers thronging the wide meadow. There was something in his bearing, something in his appearance that set him apart.
The man, tall and dressed in a loose garment of deepest indigo bedecked with chains of gold, wore an unusual soft, flat hat of a kind Quentin had never seen before. Beneath the hat a long face protruded, rimme
d by a short, bristling beard. The beard was black as pitch, contrasting boldly with the lighter, somewhat sallow complexion of the emissary.
He strode with purpose directly to the wagon to stand with hands on hips, glaring the two prisoners. Quentin stared boldly back into the snapping black eyes as the warlord’s chief emissary—for so Quentin now considered him—spoke quickly to the two guards. He did not turn his head to speak to them, but kept his eyes on the captives alone.
The guards grumbled back an answer to the bearded officer. He barked at them once more and tossed them a hasty look over his shoulder. At once they jumped to their feet and, still mumbling, began to untie the prisoners from the wheels of the wagon. Then he turned and began walking back to the tent.
Quentin and Toli were jerked to their feet and pushed forward to follow him. Their guards seemed none too pleased to be about this duty. Quentin wondered what this summons could mean. Toli returned his questioning glance with one of his own as they marched through the camp. Quentin noticed that the eyes of the soldiers they passed followed them with looks of mingled fear and awe.
At the warlord’s tent the approach of the emissary and prisoners brought two soldiers to their feet to hold back the entrance flap. The tall man stooped and entered without a word; Quentin and Toli were pushed forward to follow him. Their guards, glad to be done with the detail, hurried away to find their supper.
Stooping so low brought a gasp of pain from Quentin, who stumbled and caught himself uncertainly. His hands had grown stiff and numb from his bonds. When he picked himself up, he saw that the inside of the domed tent was like the canopy of the night sky and just as dark. Tiny golden lamps suspended from golden chains burned brightly, each one a flaming star in the vault of the heavens. The robed emissary turned to them and held up his hand, indicating that they were to remain where they were. He turned and disappeared behind a richly embroidered hanging curtain.
“This is like no commander’s pavilion that I have ever seen,” said Quentin as his eyes took in the strange, slightly fantastic furnishings of the abode. Everywhere he looked, the soft glisten of gold and silver met his gaze.
“It is a king’s palace made to travel.” Toli, too, registered surprise at the contrast between the fierce warlord and his men, and the surroundings of his tent.
Just then the bearded emissary stepped back through the curtain and motioned them forward, and as he did so, the warlord’s seneschal cuffed Quentin sharply on the neck as an indication he was to bow in the warlord’s presence.
Quentin entered the inner sanctum with eyes lowered. He and Toli stood side by side for some time in silence. No one moved or spoke. Before them and a little above they could hear the slow, even breathing of the warlord, and Quentin imagined he could feel his cool gaze upon them as he pondered their fate.
The warlord grunted a command, and his servant came forward and bowed before him. The warlord spoke a low rumble in his unfathomable tongue. The seneschal bowed again and said, his voice smooth and cultured, “My lord has decided that you may sit in his presence. He wishes you to eat with him, but you are not to speak—unless he asks you a question, and then you are to answer without hesitation. If either of you do not answer at once, he will know that you are contemplating a lie and will have your tongue cut out that your friend may eat it and remember not to follow your example.”
He clapped his hands, and two servants brought cushions and placed them at the prisoners’ feet. “Sit,” came the order.
When they had seated themselves, with some difficulty in Quentin’s case, the bearded emissary said, “You may raise your eyes.”
When they had done so, he cried, “Look upon the immortal Gurd, commander of Ningaal, warlord of Nin the Destroyer!”
Quentin was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes.
20
They camped here last night, by the look of it,” said Ronsard, rising from the cold ashes he had been examining.
“And by the look of it, there must have been close to three thousand men with wagons and horses.” Theido’s gaze swept the wide meadow where the army had camped. All that was left now were scattered traces: matted grass where men had slept, charred patches where the fires had burned, broken turf where wagons had passed, and the crescent indentations in the earth where horses had walked. But the army had moved on.
“It will not be difficult to follow them; the signs are clear enough,” said Ronsard. He looked toward the westering sun. “How far do you think an army of that size could travel in a day? Four leagues? Five?”
“Four leagues, perhaps. Not more. They do not seem to be in a great hurry. It is strange . . .”
“What is?”
“That a force of such size should move through the land, driving all before them and yet . . .” He paused, seeking the words.
“Not appear afraid of being met and challenged.” The voice was Esme’s, who sat upon her mount, watching the two knights and following their conversation.
“Yes, that’s it. If I were invading a strange country,” said Theido, “I would have a thought for the resistance which must surely come sooner or later. There is an arrogance here which chills me to the bone.”
One of Ronsard’s knights hailed them from across the meadow. “He has found something,” replied Ronsard. He led them to where the knight knelt. Drawing closer, they soon noticed the look of frank disgust that contorted the soldier’s features.
“What is it, Tarkio? What have you found?”
“Lord Ronsard, I think someone has been killed in this place.”
The soldier was right. The deep red-black stain upon the earth could have been made in only one way.
Theido eyed the evidence, his lips pressed into a thin, colorless line.
“It could have been a stag,” suggested Esme. Her words lacked conviction; she, too, feared the worst.
“What would they do with the body?” Ronsard’s voice was strained and tight. He turned away from the ugly splotch in the grass, and Esme noticed the dark flame of anger that leaped into his eyes.
“I think I know what they did with the body,” said Tarkio in a tone devoid of all expression. He spoke so oddly the others looked at him and then followed his gaze to the nearby trees.
“By Azrael!”
“The fiends.”
“Avert your eyes, my lady. It is no sight for a woman,” said Ronsard. He glanced at Theido, and his look was one of keen distress. For two heartbeats a question hung unspoken between them. “We must,” he uttered softly. “For I would know.”
“I will go with you,” said Theido quietly. “Stay here with Tarkio, Esme. We shall return at once.”
Theido dismounted and started off with Ronsard toward the tree, a great, spreading oak wherein hung the dangling corpse of the unfortunate soldier.
It did not so much resemble a human body as it did that of some animal carcass hung up to age. The birds had been all day at its face, and the entrails were but ragged shreds. It was hung from a low branch, both halves side by side, twisting slowly on the cord that passed through the bound hands and feet.
“One of their own?” Theido’s voice was thick and his features a tight grimace.
Ronsard nodded. “This one was never born in Mensandor.” He turned away from the gruesome token. “I am satisfied. Quentin and Toli may still be alive, but that is all I can say. I wish there were some clearer sign; I am not at all heartened by what I have seen here.”
“Nor am I. But it is enough, I think, to continue the chase.” Theido cast his gaze to the sky, now radiant with the gold of the lowering sun. “We still have a few hours’ daylight; we can go far.”
“And we will ride tonight. We should catch them before morning.”
Without another word they walked back to where the others were now waiting. Esme and Tarkio had been joined by the two remaining knights. “Be assured, my lady. Yonder wretch was never friend to us. One of their own, most likely.” Ronsard shot a questioning glance at the two who ha
d, like Tarkio, been scouring the area for any signs as to the fate of the captives. Both knights merely shook their heads from side to side; they had seen nothing.
“Then we ride on. The trail is an easy one to follow. We shall stop at the next water to rest the horses. Nobren and Kenby go ahead, and then Tarkio and Esme. Theido and I will follow.” As the others took their mounts, he said to Theido, “We must have a plan before we reach the camp.”
Theido offered a nod. “We will pray that something presents itself along the way. For now, I am eager to put this cheerless place behind me.”
Two human skulls stared vacantly back at Quentin from where they stood affixed to long poles on either side of Gurd’s low dais. The warlord himself seemed only a slightly more animated skull. He sat unmoving, the soft lamplight filling the hollows of his keen face with shadow. That he was aware at all of their presence was shown by the two glinting orbs of his black eyes.
The warlord was seated, as were his reluctant guests, upon a cushion. His chest was bare, for he wore a short jacket open to the waist. It was of a very ornate pattern, brocaded in delicate figures foreign to Quentin’s eye. But it was the man’s chest that caught and held Quentin’s attention. For even in the glimmering light of the oil lamps, he could see that it was a mass of scars—long, jagged, nasty-looking scars. No accident or wound of battle could have produced them in such profusion; some were obviously more recent, for they overlaid the others, and some were freshly healed.
Quentin realized with a start that the wounds, these horrible mutilations, were self-inflicted.
The seneschal, now seated at the warlord’s right hand between the prisoners and his master, clapped his hands, and slaves bearing large bowls of food came hurrying in. Another slave set down smaller bowls, which the food bearers proceeded to fill from the larger bowls. When this was completed, the bowls were left before the diners, and the slaves withdrew hastily.
In the Hall of the Dragon King Page 50
