“I believe you.”
“But then,” Quentin continued, his eyes kindling with excitement as he warmed to his story, “when everything is ready the god comes and there is celebration-it goes on for weeks. There are feasts and games and so much happiness. The temple is opened to the pilgrims who have gathered outside the walls, and all join in the celebration.”
“Yes, that is a good time for our people. I have attended some of those celebrations-when I was a little girl. I was always afraid of the priests; I thought they were the gods.”
“Sometimes they think they are, too,” remarked Quentin. His face brightened momentarily with a grin. “Or they’d like to have you believe it. But I think there must be more to it somehow. I don’t know…” His voice trailed off, unable to express what he felt. They had reached the foot of the hill below the hermit’s cottage.
“I know what you mean. I often think that the gods are not the least bit interested in us or our problems. And sometimes I think there are no gods at all. And yet… even in my doubting I feel a presence I cannot explain. A moving within. A longing in my spirit for something more.”
“You have felt it, too,” said Quentin firmly. “Perhaps that is why I chose to leave; I could no longer stay.”
“Often I would lay awake at night burning with a strange fever. I would hear someone call my name, and yet the night was hushed around me. I used to tell the priests about these things and they said that it was the god calling me, that he had something special for me. But deep inside I knew that wasn’t it. Finally, Biorkis told me not to speak about it any more with any of the other priests.”
“Still, whenever I heard the voice or felt the fire, I would go to Biorkis and we would talk about it. He would ask me what I thought it meant.”
“What do you think it meant?”
Quentin drew a deep breath and looked into the sun-filled sky. “I am not a priest, but I do think a god was calling me. But a god greater than any other. Higher, wiser. And he knew me.”
“You are a special boy,” Alinea said, raising her hand to his face. “I knew that the moment I saw you standing nervously in my chamber. I knew also that you were no furrier,” she laughed.
The air seemed to grow sharper as a gust of wind spun snow around the two figures. Without another word they turned and went back up the little hill to the cottage.
The Prince slouched in his winged chair fingering a soft leather pouch full of gold coins. Sir Bran and Sir Grenett stood on either side of him, and all three gazed with some trepidation upon the three visitors in front of them. Prince Jaspin said, after a moment’s deliberation, “I want them found and brought back-this Hawk and whoever his friends may be-however it may be accomplished. I care not what means you use.”
Sir Bran and Sir Grenett, knights hardened in battle and fearless, shrank away from the sight of the Harriers, fierce and brutal men devoid of human compassion or mercy. The Harriers, as they were known in Mensandor, were last descendants of an ancient people in the realm, the cruel Shoth. A savage, war-loving race who killed for the pleasure of killing, and the twisted enjoyment of inflicting pain on another.
Over a long and unbroken history of war the Shoth had developed special powers which enabled them to pursue their enemies with unerring accuracy, powers the simple peasants considered supernatural: the ability to see in the dark like cats, to scent a trail, and to hone in on the intense emotions of their prey. It seemed as if they could snatch thoughts out of the air, and so many believed.
There were few of the Shoth left in the world; they were dying out stubbornly. But those who lived on employed themselves as mercenary soldiers, or as trackers of outlaws. For either service they received high rewards from their patrons-as much as ever they desired, since they were not the kind of men one wanted as enemies.
The Harriers were greatly feared by everyone who knew of them, or who happened to meet them, upon those rare occasions when one or more might be seen in passing.
Two long braids from either side of their heads were woven together and fell down their broad backs. Their features, wolf-like and hard as stone, were made more fearsome by the blue tattooed designs which covered their faces. Their clothing was rough, made of animal skins with the hair scraped or burned off; they wore soft boots made in the same fashion, laced on the outside from ankle to knee. Around their necks they wore necklaces made from the hair and finger bones of their victims. On their brawny arms were bracelets of human teeth.
To see a Harrier was to know fear. Their bizarre appearance was coldly ordained to inspire terror, to immobilize their hapless quarry.
They carried long, thin swords with serrated blades so that a wound from the thrust of a Harrier sword did not heal quickly or without difficulty. That mattered little since few who ever felt that dangerous edge remained alive to tell it. They also carried small wooden and skin shields on which were painted crude symbols of their barbaric religion-said to include regular human sacrifice.
The Harriers who sold their services as trackers also used birds, most often hawks, but also small eagles or ravens, to help them locate their human game at long distance. These birds rode with them upon the Harriers’ peculiar stout, short legged ponies upon ornate perches built onto their saddles, usually of bones and hide-again the bones and hide of their victims. Some said the Harriers spoke with their birds mind to mind, so extraordinary was the communication between the two preying creatures.
“There are at least three of them, maybe more. I have a report from one of the guards who saw three ride off toward Pelgrin last night.” Prince Jaspin stood abruptly and tossed the bag of coins to the foremost of the Harriers who deftly caught it and slipped it into an inner pouch in his clothing. “There will be more money when you return; you will be paid well.” He smacked his clenched fist into his open palm to add emphasis to his words. “I want them found!”
“So shall it be done,” said Gwert, the largest of the three. Then without another word or look they turned and filed out as silently as smoke drifting away on the breeze.
When they had gone Sir Bran let a deep breath whistle through his clenched teeth. “Fair Prince, I do not like this turn. I would that you had requested me and some of my men-at-arms to bring back this prisoner for you. These Harriers-these barbarians-are not to be trusted. You will get your prisoner and his companions, if you care not how many pieces they are in.”
“I do not care,” said Jaspin angrily. “I only want them found and stopped.”
Sir Grenett interposed, “My Lord, why is this man-this Hawk-such a menace to you? He is only an outlaw-and even if he were chief among them he would account you no more loss than your bounty will cost in the end. Why do you seek his end so ardently?”
“That,” said the enraged prince, “is my own care, sir, and none of yours!” He turned on them threatening, “You will both keep this to yourselves. Do you hear? Besides,” Jaspin continued in a softer tone, “it would not do for my new regents to entertain such troublesome pursuits. There are more important things to be done.”
“Come, let us begin making plans for our next little surprise.” He led them to his table and a pitcher of wine and goblets on a silver tray. “My friends, I pledge your health and continued success,” he said, lifting his glass to theirs when he had poured them full. They all drank deeply, and when they rose from their cups the knights returned Jaspin’s pledge.
“To Askelon’s new king!”
THIRTEEN
THE OLD man lay upon the stone altar in a great darkened hall. Torches smoldered at each corner of the five-sided altar casting a strange, flickering glow which curled and eddied like water over the man’s face. He appeared to be asleep, or dead, yet even in deepest repose the fierce malevolence of the features did not abate. So bent was the black soul which inhabited that body, it twisted all it touched. The face was a mask of hate, the more terrible because it was also a face of keen intelligence.
Nimrood sank, as it seemed to him, through lay
ers of smoke, as if falling from a great height. His head throbbed; dull pains shot through his limbs. But he willed himself to continue.
The smoke thinned and then scattered completely. He looked beneath him and saw the solid earth sliding away below. Still dropping rapidly, but gliding now, not falling, the magician could make out detail in the land. Behind, a high range of snowcapped mountains, the Fiskills; to the right, the long silver ribbon of the Wilst River now frozen in its wriggling push to the sea; ahead, but still too dim to see clearly, the dark, gray-green mass of the great forest Pelgrin, partially hidden by clouds. Further ahead, but beyond sight, lay Askelon, the city on a hill.
Nimrood slowed his descent and heard the cold air rushing past him, but he felt nothing at all. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he turned his head to see the black wing rising and falling rhythmically as the wind sang shrilly through his feathers. The sorcerer had taken the form of a raven. He flew swiftly on.
Approaching Pelgrin, Nimrood’s keen raven’s eyes could see the dim shape of Askelon rising in the distance. Light was failing as the world sank into the darkness of a long winter night. It would be dark by the time he reached the castle, but it mattered not. Nimrood was a friend of darkness, and of all things that loved the darkness. He used the black of night as a cloak to hide his deeds.
Nimrood had delved deeply into the hidden arts; he had toyed with secrets veiled from the foundations of the world. He had traveled widely, learning the lore of magicians and sorcerers of every race. An insatiable pupil as a young man, he had studied with every occult master until he was as powerful as any who had lived before him. He had gazed upon the heart of the unspeakable and had bartered every human emotion to gain the power he sought, and which still eluded him: the power to bend all men to his will.
When at last he reached his destination, Nimrood circled over Askelon, descending in sweeping spirals. He dived for the tower where Prince Jaspin’s quarters lay, and alighted upon the narrow ledge of an arrow loop high in the wall above Jaspin’s chamber. Prince Jaspin was alone, sitting in his great chair near the fire. Nimrood fluttered to the floor noiselessly, changing back into his human form as he lightly touched down.
“Prince Jaspin,” he said, enjoying the fright he gave the Prince. “You are not expecting anyone, are you?”
“By Zoar! You startled me.” Jaspin threw himself back into his chair, clutching at his heart. “No, by Azrael, I should say not. No one-least of all you, Nimrood. How did you get here?”
“That would not interest you very much, I am afraid. I am not really here at all. You see merely a phantasm, my projected soul-body, or what you will.” The sorcerer crossed the room, and as he passed in front of the fire Jaspin could see the flames shining faintly through his ghostly form. He came to stand directly in front of the astonished Prince.
“What are you doing here? If you will not tell me how you got here, you’ll tell me why, I’ll warrant.”
“Indeed I shall.” The wizard folded his arms upon his breast and glared down upon Prince Jaspin, who sank in bewilderment further into the cushions of his chair. “You let him escape!” he shouted. Jaspin fancied he heard thunder crack in the magician’s voice.
“He had help… friends within the castle. I have had the keeper of the dungeon and the guards beheaded… I have…”
“Silence!” Nimrood hissed. “Do you think spilling the blood of worthless guards will appease me? Will it bring back the prize?”
Nimrood frowned furiously and began to pace before the hearth. Jaspin watched in dread fascination. “He is mine! I want him! Twice you have let him escape!” he cried in anger.
“Twice?” Jaspin asked timidly. “Surely you are mistaken. We have only caught him once.”
“Nimrood mistaken?” The wizard’s eyes flashed fire, but he opened his mouth to a hollow, cackling laugh. “You little know me, Prince Jackal.”
“You fool!” Nimrood shouted, suddenly losing his temper again. “Do you not know? This outlaw Hawk is none other than Lord Theido of Crandall, the greatest military mind of this age.”
“No… I…” the Prince gasped speechless.
“None other. You had him in your clutches when you arrested him upon his return from the wars. You let him slip away then, too.”
“That was different,” Jaspin objected, starting out of his chair.
“You raise your voice against Nimrood?” the wizard cried. The fire in the hearth billowed forth with a roar, spilling a torrent of cinders and sparks into the room. Jaspin felt the heat on his face. “I shall reduce this pile of stone to smoldering ashes, my Prince. Be careful.” Nimrood ran his long slender hands through his wild hair and continued to pace.
“What do you intend to do about it?” he demanded.
“I have set Harriers upon the trail,” said Jaspin sulkily. “We shall have him back before too many days have passed.”
“Hmmm… all right. I see you can use your head when you are pressed to it. But notify me at once when you have caught him. Alive or dead, I want him. You have bought yourself another chance, and maybe saved your crown. But do not fail this time, or it will be your last living act!” the wicked Nimrood sneered.
He then turned and fixed Prince Jaspin with a terrifying scowl. Jaspin felt his limbs grow heavy, losing strength; his heart turned cold within his breast. “There are worse fates than death, I assure you. I know of several-all equally distressing. I reserve them for those who particularly disappoint me. You have one more chance… do not disappoint me.” The sorcerer turned and stepped into the flaming fireplace. The deed brought Jaspin to his feet.
The wizard cackled and appeared to stretch, growing taller and more transparent. Just before he faded from view he said, “Did you know that Ronsard lives? No? Well not for long. I have sent men to capture him.” He laughed again and faded completely into the flames. Prince Jaspin heard only the thin echo of his depraved laughter and then that too was gone.
Jaspin sank once more into the winged chair. His face had taken on the pallor of a dead man.
The fire on Durwin’s hearth had burned low. Quentin slept lightly, curled in a warm corner near the fire. He felt as if he had finally saturated himself with slumber; his mind drifted hazily through shifting dreams. It had been an uneventful day, spent in talk and minute preparations, of which Quentin had but a small part. He had mostly eaten and slept, and cared for the horses, making sure they all had an extra portion in payment for their hard ride the night before.
Theido and Durwin sat near the fire smoking long wooden pipes filled with aromatic leaves which Durwin cultivated. They sat in silence, all talked out. Puffing occasionally and grunting as they turned matters over in their minds.
Alinea slept comfortably stretched upon Durwin’s low wooden bed. She had said little all day, but Quentin thought her eyes spoke eloquently of the turmoil taking place within. Her emerald eyes seemed to weep inside for the anguish she felt for her King. Still, she had put aside her own torment and had found kind words to say to Quentin in that moment when they were together. For that, Quentin had declared to himself, he would gladly give his life for hers at the first opportunity.
Durwin rose at last and stretched. He knocked his pipe gently against the stone mantle and turned to roll himself in his cloak in some further corner, leaving Theido to his thoughts. Quentin, who dozed fitfully, thought he heard Durwin utter a shrill whistle and thought it extremely odd behavior so late at night.
Then he heard it again and stirred himself out of his half-sleep, pushing himself up on his elbows. Durwin had stopped where he stood, listening. Theido, his chair tilted back, resting his long legs against the fireplace, stopped puffing and listened, too.
The whistle sounded again, this time closer. Theido got up and went to the door and slipped out. A cold draft washed over Quentin, rousing him more fully awake. Another signal was heard, this time closer to the cottage; it was Theido replying to the sign.
Alinea was awake now and sta
nding near Durwin. She bent her head and spoke to the hermit, but Quentin could not catch the words. He strained every sense to hear what was taking place outside. All he heard was the crackle and pop of the fire upon the hearth, and his own breathing.
Then he heard the soft, muffled shuffle of snow-dampened footsteps returning to the cottage. Theido ducked in rubbing his arms for warmth. “Voss and his bush-men have a visitor for us,” he explained. “They are bringing him along.”
No sooner had he spoken these words than a soft knock was heard at the door. Theido threw it open and there stood the squat leader of the rangers. Behind him was another man held in tow by several of Voss’ companions.
“Come in, Voss,” said Theido. “Let us see your catch.”
The hefty ranger strode into the cabin and waved his charge forward.
“Trenn!” the Queen cried as her warder tumbled into the light. He swayed uncertainly upon his feet and looked about to topple over, but Voss put out a hand to steady him. Durwin whisked up a stool and sat the man down.
“We watched him as soon as he entered the wood. When he appeared to be heading in this direction we took him,” said Voss casually.
“Trenn, what are you doing here?” Alinea’s eyes searched his face for a clue. “Has Jaspin discovered our game?”
“As I fear, my Lady,” said Trenn, rising to his feet and bowing. “I came to warn you all: Jaspin has put Harriers on your trail. I prayed to every god I knew that I would not come too late.”
At the mention of the dreaded trackers even Voss’ broad face blanched. “This is dire news,” he said.
Alinea’s hand went to her face. She shot a hasty look to Theido who stood unmoved. “There is our answer,” said Durwin.
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