22
The tower of flames leaped high into the night, pouring itself onto the vast darkness above, blotting out the stars with its scarlet glow. Quentin and Toli, tethered to the wagon’s wheels, could feel the heat of the enormous bonfire on their faces, though they were well removed from the blaze. As the flames soared skyward, the wild revel rose on its own wicked wings, taking the form of a thing fevered and inflamed.
The tumult had grown steadily through the evening hours, and now the surrounding woods echoed with the crazed ravings of the celebrants. The raging mass seethed about the fire in gyrations of ever-increasing frenzy. To Quentin and Toli, looking on in mute wonder, it seemed as if something had taken control of their spirits and played them as a maddened minstrel striking his instrument in tortured ecstasy.
Quentin saw, in the glare thrown out by the fire, something moving in the darkness beyond the perimeter. Through the shimmering sheets of heat loosed by the fire, he could see it lumbering slowly, like a colossal beast, a dark shape that seemed to form itself out of the darkness surrounding it.
“Look yonder—there across the way,” he whispered to Toli. Quentin did not know why he had bothered to whisper—their guards were not even making a show of watching them. They had given themselves over to the festivities of their comrades, though they still sat at their posts, longing to join in the turmoil.
“What is it? I cannot make it out.”
“Wait, it is coming closer.” No sooner had Quentin finished speaking than the creature emerged from its dark captivity into the roiling circle of light. It loomed large in the dancing light, the glow of flames glittering on its hideous black skin. It was a creature of terrible beauty, awful and tremendous; it looked a very denizen of Heoth’s forsaken underworld, a thing distilled out of a thousand nightmares. And it came lurching out of the forest into the midst of the celebrants, as if it had been called up from the depths of its underworld home to reign as lord over the foul Hegnrutha.
At first Quentin believed it to be alive, but as the thing moved closer, he saw that it was in fact pulled along with ropes by a hundred or so of its keepers, who clustered about its feet. At last they brought it to the fire’s brink, where it stood with hands outstretched in a perpetual blessing or curse.
It was a statue—an immense carven image of a beast with the legs and torso of a man, the head of a lion, and the maw of a jackal. Two great, curving horns swept out from either side of its head, and its mouth was open in a snarl of rage.
“It is their idol,” said Toli, his eyes filled with the sight before him. He fairly shouted, for at the sight of the towering idol, the frenzied scene below had erupted in a climax of pandemonium. Their two guards jumped up and began dancing where they stood, waving their arms and screaming with enravished abandon.
Now more wood was being thrown around the base of the statue, and it was being introduced into the flames. As Quentin and Toli watched the flames encircle the monstrous idol, a shadow detached itself from among the myriad flickering projections and crept toward them along the perimeter. In a moment, without sensing anyone was there at all, Quentin heard a rasping whisper in his ear.
“I am going to cut your hands free. Do not move.”
Quentin did as instructed and felt his bonds fall away. His right arm swung limply down; he gathered it up with his left hand and held it close to his chest. Without waiting for further instruction, he rolled to cover beneath the wagon.
The three met, heads together, under the shelter of the wagon box. Toli rubbed his wrists and asked, “Why are you doing this?”
There was a brief flash of white in the darkness as the warlord’s emissary smiled. “They are my captors, too. I have long planned to escape, but if I am to survive, I will need the help of those who know this country.” He looked at both of them, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Time is short. We must go.”
Away from the wagons, there was little chance of discovery. There were no sentries on this night, but there were several smaller groups of revelers gathered around smaller fires at the edges of the camp, and others could be heard crashing through the woods in hysterical rapture. Their screams tore through the night, leaving little doubt in Quentin’s mind of the reality of the animal spirits to which this night was devoted.
The three crouching figures worked their way around the rim of the camp, darting furtively through the mingling expanses of light and darkness. In the trees around them, the huge, elongated shadows cavorted in grotesque mummery as the savage rites progressed unabated.
It was slow work threading through the circle’s outer ring, but at last they managed to reach the shelter of the wood, where the shadows gathered over them like a cloak. “I have hidden our horses just there.” The seneschal nodded into the darkness beyond. “I was able to retrieve your steed,” he said, looking at Quentin, “but your friend’s could not be found.”
Toli grinned and replied, “It was not my horse—I took it from among the others at tether.”
Even in the dark Quentin could see their guide’s eyebrows arch upward in surprise and his eyes shine in amused disbelief. “Then I was right about you two after all. You are not without considerable resources yourselves. I have chosen my partners well.”
The air seemed cooler in the woods, and they moved with increased confidence, though the dell rang on every hand with the howls and shrieks of the celebrants of Hegnrutha. The familiar woodland seemed now a desolate place given to the homeless shades who wandered the nightlands.
Quentin shivered inwardly and fought to keep pace with the others. By the time they reached the horses, waiting patiently in a small gorse-covered draw, Quentin was panting and weak. The small strength he had rationed through the day was nearly exhausted.
“I know a way out of this wood, if you will follow me,” said the emissary. “Then it is I who will follow you.”
“Very well,” said Toli. “Lead on.”
The two mounted quickly and wheeled their horses to the north and away from the camp behind them. Toli cast a quick look over his shoulder and saw Quentin hanging from the saddle with one hand, too weak to climb onto his horse.
“Wait!” shouted Toli, slipping from his mount. “Oh, Kenta, I am sorry. . . . I should have realized . . .”
“No—I will be all right. Just help me into the saddle.”
In the moonlight softly filling the draw, Toli saw the film of sweat glistening on Quentin’s brow. “Ride with me; I can take us both.”
“Once we are away from here, I will be all right,” insisted Quentin. “Hurry, now. Help me into the saddle. There is no time to argue.”
Toli caught Quentin’s foot and hoisted him onto the mount. He could see that Quentin’s right arm dangled uselessly from his shoulder. Quentin grabbed the reins with his left hand and drew his right across his lap to tuck it beneath his cloak.
“Let us away,” he said hoarsely.
Toli sprang to his mount, and they were off, the horses clipping over the furze and heading into the wood. Blazer seemed none the worse for his adventure, thought Quentin, relieved to be in his own saddle again. At least with Blazer he did not need two hands to ride—the horse would anticipate the commands of his master. Quentin had only to hang on; that was something he desperately hoped he would be able to do.
In a moment they were in the deep wood where the thick columns of trees broke the silver moonlight and scattered it in slivers all around them. Behind them, like the voices heard in dreams, the cries of the revelers wailed on, diminishing rapidly as distance and the thick growth of the wood cut them off. It is a dream, Quentin imagined, as he chased the elusive shapes before him, flitting in and out of shadow and light—an awful dream that will be forgotten upon waking. But the sting of the occasional whopping branch and the bracing freshness of the night air on his face were only too real. He knew this was one dream that could not be shaken off in daylight. The nightmare was real, and it had come in force to Mensandor.
23
&n
bsp; It is time something is done,” the high priest of Ariel said to himself as he paced his bare cell. “It is time to act.” The thick candle guttered in the swirls stirred up by Biorkis’s passing to and fro. A stack of parchment scrolls teetered precariously upon the table, clustered and rustling like autumn leaves in the breeze.
“It is time . . . It is time,” he said, heaving himself through the door of his cell and into the darkened passageway through a side entrance used only by the priests. He hobbled across a moonlit courtyard and through a narrow portal in the wall, then stood at the edge of the plateau and looked out across the silent valley below. He turned and cast his old gaze, still sharp as blades, toward the eastern sky.
The moon was overhead, but in the east a star blazed brightly—more brilliant than any of its sisters. And around the glowing star a film of light seemed to gather, streaming out from the star’s core. The portion of the night where that star was fixed shone with pale radiance, and wherever the eye roamed in examination of night’s black dome, it was drawn back to that star—the Wolf Star.
“Yes! It is time to act!” shouted Biorkis. His voice was echoed back to him from the empty courtyard and the temple colonnade beyond the wall. He turned, fled over the jumble of rocks, and swept back through the courtyard and into the temple once more. He made his way, puffing along on short, stout legs, to one of the temple’s many summons gongs. He picked up the striker and, pausing one final instant for reflection, banged it into the gong several times in quick succession.
“That will bring them running,” he said, and he was right.
In a moment the vestibule was filled with sleepy priests who rubbed their eyes and groaned at the disturbance to their slumbers.
“Brother priests!” Biorkis’s voice sounded loudly in their sleep-dulled ears. He shouted on purpose to bring them fully awake. “My bed has remained empty these two nights running; you can bear with me just this little while. I wish to speak to you.” There were groans among the general body of priests.
“What is this, Biorkis? Why have you called us from our devotions?”
“Your snoring vespers are not important,” Biorkis snapped at his insolent questioner. “It is time to act! The star which shines without, growing bigger with each passing night—I know what it means.”
“And this could not wait until morning?” The speaker was Pluell, the under-high priest, his own assistant. He, at least, had the privilege, as Biorkis had once had, of questioning the high priest.
“I think not. It has waited too long already. While we have blindly contemplated its meaning at our leisure, the star has grown large, and with it the strength of the evil it betokens. Mensandor is under siege by forces from far countries. The world we know is trembling on the brink of destruction.”
There was a murmur among the priests. Pluell bent to confer with several of his brothers. “I am surprised to hear that you are so concerned, Biorkis. It is not like you at all. You are the one who has ever instructed us of the folly of considering the commerce of mortal kings and their petty concerns.
“It does alarm me to hear you speak so now. Should we not draw aside, you and I, and discuss this together?”
Biorkis bridled at the suggestion. “Why, Pluell, do I sense in your tone the shriek of ambition? Why should not our brothers hear what I have to say?”
The under-high priest stepped toward his mentor, placing a hand on his arm as if he would lead him aside. “This is not the time to display such ill-founded airs before our assembled brothers. Come aside. You are tired, and your vigil has made you somewhat—shall we say, irrational.”
“Irrational, indeed! I have never been so lucid in my long and eventful life. But I do not understand your manner at all. Why do you look at me so?”
“It is late, brothers. Return to your cells and to your rest. We will no doubt have a more fruitful discussion tomorrow.”
Some of the priests made as if to leave; others stood hesitantly, uncertain whether to stay or go as instructed.
“I am high priest!” shouted Biorkis angrily. “Have you forgotten? All of you stay where you are and hear me! I propose to send King Eskevar word of our discovery.”
“Your discovery, Biorkis. You cannot expect us to endorse it, surely.” Pluell’s voice was smooth, and there was not a trace of sleep or fatigue in it.
Suddenly Biorkis realized what was happening: Pluell’s overreaching ambition, long held in check, was now released. He was making his move to take over the high priesthood. Biorkis trembled with rage as the realization knifed though him. What a fool I have been, he thought. While I have lain awake seeking an answer to the riddle of yonder star, he has been scheming for my rod.
“It shall not be, viper!” Biorkis shouted. His unexplained outburst brought wondering stares from the assembled priests. “Take your hand from me! Hear me, brothers. I am high priest, and long have you known me. When have I ever proposed a thing unwisely, or brought dishonor to the god whom we serve?”
There were doleful looks all around and much foot shuffling. No one ventured to speak. Pluell fumed silently at Biorkis’s right hand, his eyes narrowed with hate.
“Why should the suggestion of a message to the king cause such concern for some of our brothers?” As he spoke, the high priest gazed about him and recognized some who must belong to Pluell’s faction. He knew he was fighting now at a great disadvantage, but his heart warmed with anger, and his thoughts became crystalline.
“What does anyone have to fear of my sending word to our monarch? Unless there is a reason why they would keep all knowledge of events to come to themselves. Unless they would remove the high temple from its place as servant to the subjects of the realm.”
Pluell laughed, but there was no mirth in his voice. “How you do go on, Biorkis. There is nothing at all to prevent your communication with the king if you like.”
“Of course not. I am high priest. A journey to Askelon is within the authority of my sacred vows, for I will it to be so. I would grant this same authority to any who served me in the matter.”
“Why not go, then, and make the trip yourself ?” Pluell hissed.
“I? I am too old, and a younger man could travel faster. I will set my seal to a letter to be carried by one whom I will choose.”
“I do not think you would find any who would as eagerly cast aside their vows as you would have them.”
“They would not violate their vows. I have already said as much— why do you persist in this?” Biorkis felt suddenly weak and sick. Somewhere— though Biorkis had not seen it—the crafty Pluell had turned the discourse to his advantage. The high priest knew he was doomed, though he could not see how.
“Who better than the high priest to go and speak to a king? Let your own lips bear your tidings.”
“Very well,” said Biorkis angrily. “I will go. Who will come with me?” He glared around the circle of bewildered faces.
No one volunteered.
“What? Will no one accompany the high priest on this arduous journey? I could order all of you to go!”
“Maybe now we should come aside and talk,” suggested Pluell once more. He seemed to glow with satisfaction.
“I have nothing more to say to you!” Biorkis raised his rod and brought it down with a crash upon the stone floor at his feet.
“As you will, brother. Then I have no other choice but to inform the priests of Ariel of the transgressions committed by the high priest and ask for their recommendation.”
“What transgressions? Name them—I am not afraid. In all my life as a priest I have ever been faithful to my vows and to the god.”
“You force my hand. Hear then, all priests,” Pluell said, nodding to a priest who had drawn close. The priest handed over a scroll that Pluell took and made a great show of unrolling. In a strident, accusing voice, the under-high priest began reading off a list of imaginary crimes that Biorkis was alleged to have committed against the temple and his vows. The priests looking on appeared divided; s
ome nodded their agreement with the charges; others wore looks of astonishment and disbelief.
When Pluell was finished, he turned to Biorkis. “What do you have to say to these indictments?”
“Azrael take your indictments! There is no truth in them; any who know me can tell you that. But I do not think it matters at all what I say; you have already made up your mind how this will end. Get on with it.”
Pluell turned to the assembly and with his easy and unperturbed manner said, “You have heard with your own ears that he will protest the charges no further. There is but one recommendation we can bring: Biorkis is to be stripped of his priesthood and a new high priest should assume his duties. Biorkis is to be cast out from among us. Are there any who would gainsay these recommendations?”
The room was silent as a grave. No one moved a muscle.
The moment passed, and Pluell, speaking with calm assurance in a voice tinged with false sadness, turned to Biorkis. “I am sorry it had to end this way. It would have been better for you to have gone away alone while you had the chance. I would have spared you this indignity.”
“Don’t spare me, foul friend! I will go at once, but hear me before I leave, all you priests of Ariel.” He gazed at each man, many of them close friends who turned away from his burning stare in shame for their silence. “Evil has this night entered this temple. It will destroy each one of you if you do not pluck it out and cast it aside at once.”
In response to a signal from Pluell, four temple guards came forward with torches. They took Biorkis by the arms.
“I am going,” the high priest shouted. “But remember my words, all of you. The land is fallen under a shadow. Soon no place will be safe— not even the High Temple of Ariel. If you will not follow me and do what must be done, at least look upon the one whom you have chosen, and know him for what he is.
In the Hall of the Dragon King Page 52
