Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  She agreed, and they dismounted. They led their horses off the road and tied them up, then she concealed the animals. Returning to the road to go the rest of the way on foot, she felt her heartbeat quicken with uneasiness over what they might find at the top of the hill.

  She had never been to a Harmonist religious site before. It was not forbidden to set foot in one, but the Ilian church generally frowned on such commingling.

  “Let’s keep our eyes open,” Thaydor advised in a low tone as he assisted her in stepping over the chain.

  Then they proceeded up the winding drive, weapons drawn. Walking between the men, Wrynne scanned both sides of the narrow country lane continually, her small crossbow at the ready. There was nothing to see but woods.

  Until they reached the crest of the hill. Then the colossus of the hermaphrodite goddess Efrena came into view. A huge white marble nude of “the One” towered at the end of an avenue made of white and silver-blue pavers.

  On both sides of the promenade, stately white columns stood, only reaching about as high as the massive Efrena’s hip.

  The pearl-white statue, with breasts and phallus bared, had blank, serene eyes and wild, coiled hair barely tamed by a circlet crown. One hand was raised, pointing upward, the other pointing down. Around its huge bare feet were braziers for burnt offerings, but the low, round pedestal on which the colossus stood was encircled by a stone lily pond.

  Fire and water paired, Wrynne mused as she studied it. Obviously in keeping with the Harmonist philosophy of all things as balanced pairs of opposites.

  Beyond the marble shrine itself, lush green gardens stretched out with mathematical symmetry on both sides. It was obvious to Wrynne’s horticulturally trained eye, however, that the once-tidy beds and garden walkways had lain untended for many months.

  Tucked away behind the trees, she could just make out the sprawling, domed villa where the Harmonists who came here on their annual retreat here would be housed.

  “I wonder if anyone’s home,” Thaydor said as they stepped gingerly onto the promenade.

  “I doubt it. The whole place looks abandoned,” Jonty said.

  He was right. There was not a soul in sight, and the only sound was the wind lightly strumming the Aeolian harps that graced the gardens here and there, and the wind chimes hanging from the trees.

  Wrynne did not even hear any birds singing, though it was a fine spring morning, and the orchard nearby would be burgeoning at this time of year with all the fruits and seeds and nuts their little hearts could desire. So where were they?

  “Eerie,” Jonty said, looking around, his green eyes narrowed.

  “Something’s definitely wrong here,” Wrynne agreed in a wary murmur. “I sense the presence of some sort of evil.”

  “As do I,” Thaydor said. “Not sure if it’s human, though…”

  “You two and your tricks. Must be nice to have that gift,” Jonty muttered.

  “Quiet. Whoever—or whatever—is here, we don’t want them to hear us. Stay sharp.” Thaydor scanned ahead, keeping Hallowsmite angled before him as they slowly moved deeper into the Harmonists’ sacred place.

  Efrena seemed to stare down her haughty Roman nose at them.

  Jonty kept watch behind with agile steps, his borrowed sword at the ready.

  Wrynne stayed between the two men, surveying the beautiful but overgrown grounds. Her crossbow rested on her forearm, already loaded with a mistletoe dart.

  The quiet was unnerving. But there was nothing to see but a haze of yellow pollen and dandelion fluff drifting on the air.

  She searched the shadows of the shrubs and the branches of the trees with every step, grateful for the flat expanse of lawn on either side of the marble avenue. If someone or something charged out at them from the leafy cover of the garden, at least they’d see it coming.

  “Do you get the feeling we are being watched?” she asked, a chill running down her spine.

  “Aye,” Jonty said. “But by what? Or whom?”

  “Hard to say,” Thaydor mumbled, his gaze continually moving over the landscape.

  Still, they saw no one, which certainly seemed to lessen the need for stealth. Her heart beat faster as they proceeded up the promenade, past the shadows of one column after another striping the marble pavers.

  “Should we go to the villa?” she asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Thaydor.

  She frowned, jittery with nerves. There had to be something here that would give them a clue about what had happened to Lord Eudo while he’d last been here.

  Thaydor had said that if they could manage to uncover a definite lead here, then he could find a way to bring the information to the king, to warn him privately.

  “There’s something,” Thaydor murmured, pausing.

  “What is it?” Jonty quickly turned to look.

  Wrynne also stopped and followed her husband’s nod.

  “Dead animal.”

  She grimaced at the deer carcass lying on the grass. She instantly thought of Urmugoths. And dead squires.

  Queasiness pulsed through her, but she shrugged it off.

  The deer looked like a fresh kill—the traces of blood on the torn fur and antlers still crimson, not brown. The bones, however, had been picked clean.

  “Well, some sort of predator is here,” Thaydor said.

  “I’m fairly sure the Harmonists keep a herd of tame deer in the park.” Jonty’s usual jovial tone had turned taut. “It’s one of Efrena’s totem animals, if I am not mistaken.”

  “I’ll go have a look. Maybe I can figure out what might’ve killed it,” Thaydor started, but Wrynne suddenly drew in her breath.

  “Don’t move.”

  Both men froze.

  Thaydor glanced at her in alarm. “What is it?”

  “Look to the trees,” she uttered.

  Jonty cursed under his breath. “Rocs! I don’t believe it!”

  “So that’s why this place is closed down,” Thaydor mumbled, sounding vaguely like he had just been punched in the gut.

  “That little sign for man-eating birds?” Jonty said in outrage through gritted teeth, reminding them of the placard on the road. “They could have been a bit more specific!”

  “What do we do?” Wrynne whispered, half terrified, though, so far, the rocs were thankfully minding their own business, just sitting in the high branches of some huge, old trees.

  Nobody answered.

  “What in the world are they doing this far south? Don’t they usually keep to the Bronze Mountains?” Jonty asked.

  Thaydor nodded, not taking his eyes off them. “They’re a hundred miles from home.”

  “Maybe Eudo summoned them,” Jonty said.

  “Why would he do that?” Wrynne whispered.

  “We can puzzle it out later.” Thaydor moved his body between her and the rocs. “Let’s just get out of here without getting eaten, shall we? Everybody, move very slowly. And don’t make a sound.”

  “Bloody hell, first dire wolves, now rocs? Never a dull moment with you two.”

  “Stop talking!” Thaydor ordered the bard in a wrathful mutter.

  Wrynne’s mind spun with questions while they moved as a unit, inch by inch, back the way they had come. She could only hope the rocs were sated from their feast of venison.

  A whimper escaped her as one of the huge birds launched out of the treetops and flew over to investigate them.

  “Steady,” Thaydor murmured. “Hold your ground. Whatever you do, don’t run.”

  The roc soared closer, its wingspan twelve to fifteen feet wide, easily. Its glossy black feathers resembled those of a crow, but it had the bare black head of a vulture, with leathery skin, a hooked beak, scarlet throat markings…and blood-red eyes.

  When it landed on its sickle-claw feet right in front of them on the grass, it stood as tall as Wrynne.

  Indeed, she was on eye level with the terrifying creature.

  It blinked and cocked its head.

  “Nice birdie
,” Jonty murmured as they continued backing away slowly.

  The roc flicked its massive wings in a warning display like an annoyed shrug, and squawked at them. This brief, aggressive movement made plain its displeasure about their intrusion on what was apparently now the flock’s territory.

  “I think we’re done here,” Jonty said brightly.

  “Agreed,” Thaydor said. “Don’t worry, we’re leaving,” he assured the monstrous creature in a low tone.

  Not that the roc could understand.

  It tossed its ugly head belligerently and squawked again.

  “How’s your aim with that thing, wife?”

  “Accurate enough. He’d be hard to miss, big as he is.”

  As long as my hands don’t shake too badly.

  “Be ready to fire, but only on my mark.”

  “Don’t shoot him,” Jonty protested under his breath. “If he screeches, they’ll all come flapping over. Maybe I should sing to him. Music soothes the savage beast—”

  “No. They’re known to be very curious birds. You’ll risk drawing the rest of the flock to come and investigate,” Thaydor muttered. “In which case, all of us will end up like that deer.”

  Wrynne bit back a shriek as the roc hopped closer.

  But to her relief, it seemed satisfied with backing them away.

  “Why isn’t it attacking us?” Jonty whispered.

  “We’re taller than him?” Thaydor suggested.

  “Not by much,” Wrynne whispered. “Maybe he’s not hungry.”

  “Good thing we didn’t bring the horses,” Jonty remarked.

  They both looked at the bard.

  He shrugged.

  The roc just stood there in the middle of the road, staring broodingly at them with its malevolent crimson eyes. Thankfully, however, it made no effort to follow them any farther once they started retreating down the hill.

  While Thaydor fixed his attention on the bird in case it decided to attack, and Jonty kept an eye on the road behind them, Wrynne scanned the trees as they went, worried that more members of the flock might be lurking in the forest shadows.

  Suddenly, she spotted something in the woods that she had missed before, on the way up the hill. A very big something…

  “Look!”

  Jonty did, but only briefly.

  Thaydor didn’t dare. “What is it?”

  “One hell of a nest,” the bard said in amazement, then he watched the road behind them again as they continued inching back down the drive.

  “It’s huge.” Wrynne estimated that the rocs’ nest was as big as the bed she had shared last night with Thaydor at the inn—and probably home to a mated pair of the birds. “I wonder if there are any eggs in it.”

  “Wonderful,” Jonty mumbled. “Babies.”

  “And protective mother birds,” she added.

  Tucked away on the forest floor between a large boulder and a clump of trees, the nest looked empty from this distance, but its brushy walls were built up high, so it was hard to be certain. She did, however, notice a curious plant stuck to it, wedged between the side of the nest and the trunk of the massive oak that held it in place.

  The plant gave her pause even more than the nest itself had. As well versed as she was in apothecary herbs and the vegetation of both woodland and field, she had never seen such a thing before. She certainly would have remembered something like that.

  It looked like a giant burr, brown and dried out. No—rather, some monstrous breed of thistle, she mused.

  But instead of being the normal fist-sized bloom, like a milk thistle, or even its larger cousin, the artichoke, the seed head was nearly the size of a barrel or a full-grown pig.

  She stared at it in fascination. Bristling with prickles like a knight’s mace, it looked stuck to the tight, twiggy weaving of the roc’s nest. Its spiny leaves, though dead, had a reddish-orange tint. The globular seed head itself was hideous, wrapped in a white, cobweb-like layer of something resembling spider’s silk, while the dried-out plume of brushy petals sprouting from the top of it were a deep, dark red.

  But the strangest part of all was the bizarre sensation that the thing was…watching them. As if each small, dark-colored seed tucked into its bristling bracts were so many beady little eyes following their every movement, tracking her and Thaydor and Jonty as they passed.

  She swallowed hard. She could have sworn she sensed evil emanating from the thing. It seemed to pulsate with pure malice, aware of them somehow.

  And it hated them.

  Impossible, she scoffed at herself, even as chills swept through her. There was no such thing as a sentient plant! She, of all people, should know that. This species was merely foreign to her. The rocs must have brought it down from the mountains with them, she reasoned. One of them must have eaten a seed of it in their homeland and shat it out here, where it must have taken root.

  Which was a shame.

  For these were beautiful gardens, and that thing looked like an invasive weed species that could be very hard to destroy. Nasty and sharp. It had all the charm of a thornbush in winter and probably no beneficent uses.

  Thankfully, they regained the road without further incident and all breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What are those creatures doing here?” Jonty asked as they rejoined the horses behind the sanctuary spell.

  “No idea.” Thaydor sheathed his sword with a grim metallic zing. “We were lucky to get out of there alive.”

  “Did either of you see that bizarre plant stuck to the rocs’ nest?”

  “No. What about it?”

  “I could’ve sworn… Oh, never mind,” Wrynne mumbled, shaking off her silly imaginings. “What do we do now?”

  “Good question,” said Thaydor.

  “I want to know why both of you were sensing evil,” said the bard, untying his horse. “This is quite a mystery. Rocs are dangerous, of course, but can mere animals ever truly qualify as evil?”

  “A few.” Thaydor shrugged. “Most dragons.”

  “I’ve seen an evil dog or two in my day,” Wrynne added. But Jonty had a point. She glanced at her husband. “Maybe the evil we were sensing was simply coming from the Harmonist cult itself.”

  He considered this. “You’re probably right.”

  The idle flick of Jonty’s dark eyebrows told them he had no desire to get into a philosophical discussion with a pair of the Ilian faithful. He let out a sigh and leaned against his horse. “Well? I’m not sure we accomplished anything at all here.”

  Wrynne frowned. “Maybe the oracle was wrong.”

  “Maybe I was wrong and we’ve wasted our time coming here,” Jonty answered, then frowned. “Maybe it’s some other knowledge in my head that’s of importance…”

  “No, this is all very strange,” Thaydor said. “You would think that if the Harmonists knew the rocs were here, they’d send men to kill them.”

  Wrynne shrugged. “Maybe they don’t know.”

  “But they have to. They put the sign up warning people away,” Jonty pointed out. “Maybe they just decided to leave them be for a while.”

  Thaydor snorted. “Sounds like something the Harmonists would do. Whatever’s easiest.”

  “Now, now,” Wrynne scolded with a smile. “I will say one thing, though. The overall experience here does seem related to the general unpleasantness surrounding Lord Eudo.”

  Thaydor scowled and looked away. “If only there was some way I could get in to meet privately with the king and warn him not to trust that blackguard.”

  “No!” the other two said in unison.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Wrynne added. “You’ll be arrested on sight. As your wife, I forbid it. One dungeon rescue was enough, thank you very much.”

  “I’ll second that,” Jonty said. “Besides, His Majesty won’t listen to you, anyway. You and I both know from firsthand experience that the king no longer tolerates those who speak anything other than what His Majesty wishes to hear.”

  Thay
dor’s frown deepened. “I suppose you’re right. But if I can’t speak to Baynard myself to warn him to be wary of Lord Eudo, at least my brother knights will listen to me, surely. We need to go to the barracks.”

  “That’s awfully close to the palace,” Wrynne said with a worried glance at him.

  “It’s actually attached,” he admitted. “But don’t worry. We knights have our own private entrance on the side. We’ll go in that way.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Jonty admitted. “That way, Thaydor can warn the knights to watch out for Eudo. If they keep their eyes open around the palace, maybe someone will see something to help us figure out what he’s up to. Before it’s too late.”

  Thaydor’s face was etched with more than its usual resolve as he nodded toward the road. “Let’s go.”

  They led their horses back through the woods, pausing at the roadside to glance around at the treetops and the skies. When they were certain no rocs were circling above, Thaydor helped Wrynne into the saddle. Then both men swung up onto their horses’ backs, and Polly fell into line behind Avalanche.

  Ahead of her, Thaydor urged his steed into motion.

  Before Wrynne could think of a way to dissuade her overly brave husband from walking into the lion’s den, they were already galloping down the hill away from Silvermount, heading for the capital.

  Where all three of them were wanted by the law.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, they paused in the foothills and looked down on the plain below, considering their approach to Pleiburg.

  The kingdom’s capital city had been founded centuries ago at the confluence of the wide, placid River Sevock and the narrower but faster-running Drard to form Veraidel’s principle waterway, the mighty River Keo. The Keo, in turn, ran another sixty miles through the green, fertile lowlands of the south, watering the country’s richest farmlands on its way to flow into the Dragon Sea at the rowdy—and pirate-ridden—port town of Keomouth.

  One of Father’s companies had helped to build the docks and the customs house there, not to mention several chief buildings in the capital.