The dwarves all greeted Tomas, who made polite responses. Mostly he stared at the great feast of food on the table.
Dolgan laughed and said, “Help yourself, laddie; there is little cause for you to be hungry with the board full.” Tomas heaped a plate with beef, cheese, and bread and took a flagon of ale, though he had little head for it and it was early in the day. He quickly consumed what was on the platter and helped himself to another portion, looking to see if anyone disapproved. Most of the dwarves were involved in a complicated discussion of an unknown nature to Tomas, having to do with the allocation of winter stores to various villages in the area.
Dolgan called a halt to the discussion and said, “Now that Tomas is with us, I think we had best speak of these Tsurani.”
Tomas’s ears pricked up at that, and he turned his attention fully to what was being said Dolgan continued, “Since I left on patrol, we have had runners from Elvandar and Stone Mountain. There have been many sightings of these aliens near the North Pass. They have made camp in the hills south of Stone Mountain.”
One of the dwarves said, “That is Stone Mountain’s business, unless they call us to arms.”
Dolgan said, “True, Orwin, but there is also the news they have been seen moving in and out of the valley just south of the pass. They have intruded on lands traditionally ours, and that is the business of the Grey Towers.”
The dwarf addressed as Orwin nodded “Indeed it is, but there is naught we can do until spring.”
Dolgan put his feet up on the table, lighting a pipe. “And that is true also. But we can be thankful the Tsurani can do naught until spring, as well.”
Tomas put down a joint of beef he was holding. “Has the blizzard struck?”
Dolgan looked at him. “Aye, laddie, the passes are all solid with snow, for the first winter blizzard came upon us last night. There will be nothing that can move out there, least of all an army.”
Tomas looked at Dolgan. “Then . . .”
“Aye. You’ll guest with us this winter, for not even our hardiest runner could make his way out of these mountains to Crydee.”
Tomas sat back, for in spite of the comforts of the dwarven long hall, he wished for more familiar surroundings. Still, there was nothing that could be done. He resigned himself to that and returned his attention to his meal.
ELEVEN - Sorcerer’s Isle
The weary group trudged into Bordon.
Around them rode a company of Natalese Rangers, dressed in their traditional grey tunics, trousers, and cloaks. They had been on patrol, had encountered the travelers a mile out of town, and were now escorting them. Borric was irritated that the rangers had not offered to let the exhausted travelers ride double, but he hid it well. They had little reason to recognize this group of ragamuffins as the Duke of Crydee and his party, and even if he should have arrived in state, there was little warmth between the Free Cities of Natal and the Kingdom.
Pug looked at Bordon with wonder. It was a small city by Kingdom standards, little more than a seaport town, but far larger than Crydee. Everywhere he looked, people were hurrying about on unknown tasks, busy and preoccupied. Little attention was paid the travelers except for an occasional glance from a shopkeeper or a woman at market. Never had the boy seen so many people, horses, mules, and wagons all in one place. It was a confusion of colors and sounds, overwhelming his senses. Barking dogs ran behind the rangers’ horses, nimbly avoiding kicks by the irritated mounts. A few street boys shouted obscenities at the party, all obviously outlanders from their look, and most likely prisoners from the escort. Pug was vaguely troubled by this rudeness, but his attention was quickly distracted by the newness of the city.
Bordon, like the other cities in the area, had no standing army, but instead supported a garrison of Natalese Rangers, descendants of the legendary Imperial Keshian Guides and counted among the best horse soldiers and trackers in the west. They could provide ample warning of approaching trouble and allow the local militia time to turn out. Nominally independent, the rangers were free to dispose of outlaws and renegades on the spot, but after hearing the Duke’s story, and at mention of the name Martin Longbow—whom they knew well—the leader of the patrol decided this matter should be turned over to the local prefects.
They were taken to the office of the local prefect, located in a small building near the city square. The rangers appeared pleased to be shed of the prisoners and return to their patrol as they gave over custody to the prefect.
The prefect was a short, swarthy man given to brightly colored sashes about his ample girth and large golden rings upon his fingers. He smoothed his dark, oiled beard as the ranger captain explained his company’s meeting with the Duke’s party. As the rangers rode off, the prefect greeted Borric coolly. When the Duke made it clear they were expected by Talbott Kilrane, the largest ships’ broker in the city and Bornc’s trading agent in the Free Cities, the prefect’s manner changed abruptly. They were taken from the office to the prefect’s private quarters and offered hot, dark coffee. The prefect sent one of his servants with a message to the house of Kilrane and waited quietly, only occasionally making noncommittal small talk with the Duke.
Kulgan leaned over to Pug and said, “Our host is the sort who sees which way the wind blows before making up his mind, he waits word from the merchant before deciding if we’re prisoners or guests.” The magician chuckled. “You’ll find as you grow older that minor functionaries are the same the world over.”
An angry storm in the person of Meecham appeared suddenly in the door of the prefect’s home a short time later, one of Kilrane’s senior clerks at his elbow. The clerk quickly made it clear that this was indeed the Duke of Crydee and, yes, he was expected by Talbott Kilrane. The prefect was abjectly apologetic and hopeful the Duke would forgive the inconvenience, but under the present conditions, in these troubled times, he could understand? His manner was fawning and his smile unctuous.
Borric indicated that, yes, he did understand, all too well. Without any further delay, they left the prefect and went outside, where a group of grooms waited with horses. Quickly they mounted up, and Meecham and the clerk led them through the town, toward a hillside community of large, imposing houses.
The house of Talbott Kilrane stood topmost upon the highest hill overlooking the city. From the road Pug could see ships standing at anchor. Dozens of them were sitting with masts removed, obviously out of service during the harsh weather. A few coast-huggers bound for Ylith in the north or the other Free Cities were making their way cautiously in and out of the harbor, but for the most part the harbor was quiet.
They reached the house and entered an open gate in a low wall, where servants ran to take their horses. As they dismounted, their host came through the large entrance to the house.
“Welcome, Lord Borric, welcome,” he said, a warm smile splitting his gaunt face. Talbott Kilrane looked like a vulture reincarnated into human form, with a balding head, sharp features, and small, dark eyes. His expensive robes did little, to hide his gauntness, but there was an ease to his manner, and a concern in his eyes, that softened the unattractive aspect.
In spite of the man’s appearance, Pug found him likable. He shooed servants off, to make ready rooms and hot meals for the party. He would not listen as the Duke tried to explain the mission. Raising a hand, he said, “Later, Your Grace. We can speak at length, after you have had rest and food. I will expect you for dinner tonight, but for now there are hot baths and clean beds for your party. I will have warm meals delivered to your quarters. Good food, rest, and clean clothes, and you’ll feel like a new man. Then we can speak.”
He clapped his hands, and a housecarl came to show them their rooms. The Duke and his son were given separate quarters, while Pug and Kulgan shared another Gardan was shown to Meecham’s room, and the Duke’s soldiers were taken to the servants’ quarters.
Kulgan told Pug to take the first bath while the magician spoke with his servant for a while. Meecham and Kulgan went
off to the franklin’s room, and Pug stripped off his dirty clothes. In the center of the room was a large metal tub, filled with scented water, hot and steaming. He stepped into it and pulled his foot out quickly. After three days of walking through snow, the water felt as if it were boiling. Gently he placed his foot back in and, when he had become used to the heat, slowly entered the water.
He sat back in the tub, the sloping back providing support. The inside of the tub was enameled, and Pug found the slick, smooth feeling strange after the wooden tubs of home. He lathered himself over with a sweet soap and washed the dirt from his hair, then stood in the tub and poured a bucket of cold water over his head to rinse off.
He dried himself and put on the clean nightshirt that had been left for him. In spite of the early hour he fell into the warm bed. His last thought was of the sandy-haired boy with the ready grin. As Pug slipped into sleep, he wondered if Dolgan had found his friend.
He awoke once during the day, hearing a nameless tune being hummed, while water was being splashed about with great zeal as Kulgan soaped his large body. Pug closed his eyes and was quickly asleep again.
He was hard asleep when Kulgan roused him for dinner. His tunic and trousers had been cleaned and a small rent in the shirt mended. His boots were polished and shone with a black gleam. As he stood inspecting himself in a mirror, he noticed for the first time a soft black shadow on his cheeks. He leaned closer and saw the early signs of a beard.
Kulgan watched him and said, “Well, Pug. Shall I have them fetch you a razor so you can keep your chin bare like Prince Arutha? Or do you wish to cultivate a magnificent beard?” He exaggeratedly brushed his own grey beard.
Pug smiled for the first time since leaving Mac Mordain Cadal. “I think I can leave off worrying about it for a time.”
Kulgan laughed, glad to see the boy’s spirits returning. The magician had been troubled at the depth of Pug’s mourning for Tomas and was relieved to see the boy’s resilient nature assert itself. Kulgan held the door open “Shall we?”
Pug inclined his head, imitating a courtly bow, and said, “Certes, master magician. After you?” and broke into a laugh.
They made their way to the dining room, a large and well-lit hall, though nothing as large as in the castle of Crydee. The Duke and Prince Arutha were already seated, and Kulgan and Pug quickly took their places at the table.
Borric was just finishing his account of the events at Crydee and in the great forest when Pug and Kulgan sat. “So,” he said, “I chose to carry this news myself, so important I believe it to be.”
The merchant leaned back in his chair as servants brought a wide variety of dishes for the diners. “Lord Borric,” said Talbott, “when your man Meecham first approached me, his request on your behalf was somewhat vague, due, I believe, to the manner in which the information was transmitted.” He referred to the magic employed by Kulgan to contact Belgan, who had in turn sent the message to Meecham. “I never expected your desire to reach Krondor would prove as vital to my own people as I now see it to be.” He paused, then continued, “I am, of course, alarmed by the news you bear. I was willing to act as a broker to find you a ship, but now I will undertake to send you in one of my own vessels.” He picked up a small bell that sat near his hand and rang. In a moment a servant was standing at his shoulder. “Send word to Captain Abram to ready the Storm Queen. He leaves on tomorrow’s afternoon tide for Krondor. I will send more detailed instructions later.”
The servant bowed and left. The Duke said, “I thank you, Master Kilrane. I had hoped that you would understand, but I did not expect to find a ship so quickly.”
The merchant looked directly at Borric. “Duke Borric, let me be frank. There is little love lost between the Free Cities and the Kingdom. And, to be franker still, less love for the name conDoin. It was your grandfather who laid waste to Walinor and siege to Natal. He was stopped only ten miles north of this very city, and that memory still rankles many of us. We are Keshian by ancestry, but freemen by birth, and have little affection for conquerors.” Kilrane continued as the Duke sat stiffly in his chair, “Still, we are forced to admit that your father later, and yourself now, have been good neighbors, treating fairly with the Free Cities, even generously at times. I believe you to be a man of honor and realize these Tsurani people are likely all you say they are. You are not the sort of man given to exaggeration, I think.”
The Duke relaxed a little at this. Talbott took a sip of wine, then resumed his conversation. “We would be foolish not to recognize that our best interests lie with those of the Kingdom, for alone we are helpless. When you have departed, I will summon a meeting of the Council of Guilds and Merchants and will argue for support of the Kingdom in this.” He smiled, and all at the table could see that here was a man as confident in his influence and authority as the Duke was in his. “I think I will have little difficulty in making the council see the wisdom of this. A brief mention of that Tsurani war galley and a little conjecture on how our ships would fare against a fleet of such ships should convince them.”
Borric laughed and slapped his hand upon the table. “Master merchant, I can see your wealth was not acquired by a lucky cast of fate’s knucklebones. Your shrewd mind is a match for my own Father Tully’s. As is your wisdom. I give you my thanks.”
The Duke and the merchant continued to talk late into the night, but Pug was still tired and returned to his bed. When Kulgan came in hours later, he found the boy lying restfully, a peaceful expression on his face.
The Storm Queen ran before the wind, her topgallants and sky sails slamming her through the raging sea. The swirling, stinging icy rain made the night so black that the tops of her tall masts were lost in hazy darkness to those who stood on her decks.
On the quarterdeck, figures huddled under great fur-lined oilcloth cloaks, trying to stay warm and dry in the bitterly cold wetness. Twice during the last two weeks they had run through high seas, but this was by far the worst weather they had encountered. A cry went up from the rigging, and word was carried to the captain that two men had fallen from the yards. Duke Borric shouted to Captain Abram, “Can nothing be done?”
“Nay, my lord. They are dead men, and to search would be folly, even if possible, which it is not,” the captain shouted back, his voice carrying over the storm’s roar.
A full watch was above in the treacherous rigging, knocking away the ice that was forming on the spars, threatening to crack them with additional weight, disabling the ship. Captain Abram held the rail with one hand, watching for signs of trouble, his whole body in tune with his ship. Next to him stood the Duke and Kulgan, less sure of their footing on the pitching deck. A loud groaning, cracking sound came from below, and the captain swore.
Moments later a sailor appeared before them. “Captain, we’ve cracked a timber and she’s taking water.”
The captain waved to one of his mates who stood on the main deck “Take a crew below and shore up the damage, then report.”
The mate quickly picked four men to accompany him below. Kulgan seemed to go into a trance for a minute before he said, “Captain, this storm will blow another three days.”
The captain cursed the luck the gods had sent him and said to the Duke, “I can’t run her before the storm for three days taking water. I must find a place to heave to and repair the hull.”
The Duke nodded, shouting over the storm, “Are you turning for Queg?”
The captain shook his head, dislodging snow and water dripping from his black beard. “I cannot turn her into the wind for Queg. We will have to lie off Sorcerer’s Isle.”
Kulgan shook his head, though the gesture was not noticed by the others. The magician asked, “Is there nowhere else we can put in?”
The captain looked at the magician and the Duke. “Not as close. We would risk the loss of a mast. Then, if we didn’t founder and sink, we’d lose six days rather than three. The seas run higher, and I fear I may lose more men.” He shouted orders aloft and to the steersm
an, and they took a more southerly course, heading for Sorcerer’s Isle.
Kulgan went below with the Duke. The rocking, surging motion of the ship made the ladder and narrow passageway difficult to negotiate, and the stout magician was tossed from one side to the other as they made their way to their cabins. The Duke went into his cabin, shared with his son, and Kulgan entered his own. Gardan, Meecham, and Pug were trying to rest on their respective bunks during the buffeting. The boy was having a difficult time, for he had been sick the first two days. He had gained sea legs of a sort, but still couldn’t bring himself to eat the salty pork and hardtack they were forced to consume. Because of the rough seas, the ship’s cook had been unable to perform his usual duties.
The ship’s timbers groaned in protest at the pounding the waves were giving, and from ahead they could hear the sound of hammers as the work crew struggled to repair the breached hull.
Pug rolled over and looked at Kulgan. “What about the storm?”
Meecham came up on one elbow and looked at his master. Gardan did likewise. Kulgan said, “It will blow three days longer. We will put in to the lee of an island and hold there until it slackens.”
“What island?” asked Pug.
“Sorcerer’s Isle.”
Meecham shot up out of his bunk, hitting his head on the low ceiling. Cursing and rubbing his head, while Gardan stifled a laugh, he exclaimed, “The island of Macros the Black?”
Kulgan nodded, while using one hand to steady himself as the ship nosed over a high crest and forward into a deep trough. “The same. I have little liking for the idea, but the captain fears for the ship.” As if to punctuate the point, the hull creaked and groaned alarmingly for a moment.
“Who is Macros?” asked Pug.
Kulgan looked thoughtful for a moment, as much from listening to the work crew in the hold as from the boy’s question, then said, “Macros is a great sorcerer, Pug. Perhaps the greatest the world has ever known.”
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