by Lee Duigon
Ryons knew—better than most grown men and women knew—that in these days God had set His mighty hand upon the world and was doing things that no one understood. What would be the end of it? Why had God plucked him out of slavery and set him on a throne? Why was He bringing forth strange beasts out of the earth? Why had He brought ruin upon this city of Obann, and then miraculously saved it—and yet allowed His Temple to be burned to ashes?
Who in all this world knew what to do? Ryons didn’t! But did Obst, or any of the chieftains?
Ryons listened to the wind, and prayed, and after just a few minutes of praying silently, fell asleep. And his sleep was troubled.
Born into slavery without even a name to call his own, with no memory of mother or father, Ryons had never had a home. But in his dream he was passionately homesick, although in waking life he didn’t know the word “homesick.” But that’s what it was. His soul was torn. If he were a grown man who had learned to know the human heart, he would have recognized his pain as a kind of bereavement—a separation from someone, or someplace, deeply loved. But how could that be? In all his short life, up until just a little time ago, no one had loved him, and no place was any better than another. From whom could he be separated, that it should pain him so? What home could he long for, who had never had a home?
When he woke in the morning, he found his eyes and cheeks encrusted with dried tears, and he remembered the dream: the pain of it still throbbed. Yet more than the pain, a wild thought gripped him.
“It was God speaking to me—that’s why I didn’t understand it!” That was what he thought, and he just accepted it: he was only ten years old. “God was telling me something, and I didn’t understand.”
If he’d known enough to think of all the holy men and scholars and presters who’d never heard God speak to them, and so believed God never spoke to anyone, Ryons might have been even more confused than he was. But then the Ghol who was guarding his door yawned noisily, stretched, got up, and grinned at Ryons in his bed.
“I hope my father had propitious dreams!” he said in Gholish. Ryons, who still struggled with that language, understood enough to answer, “Thank you—is it time for breakfast?”
CHAPTER 23
How Tim Met the King
Trapper Tim had heard of Obann City all his life. The laws came out of Obann; taxes flowed into it. The Temple was there: every prester for every chamber house had to be ordained there. Obann was the seat of oligarchy, the heart of government, and so on.
Hearing of it was one thing, but being there was overwhelming. Tim had never dreamed so many people could be packed into one place. They made a noise that never stopped, just like a waterfall. The flow of people through the streets was like a river, never ceasing. And the city’s walls were like the cliffs of mighty mountains.
Osker the plowman, who’d been there once before, tried to pretend he was used to it, but Tim more than once caught his eyes goggling. So many big buildings, everywhere you looked! The entire populace of Jocah’s Creek could live in one of them.
Tim and Osker stood for a long time before the mountain of blackened rubble that used to be the Temple. Workmen picked away at it, filling carts and wheeling it away. Their efforts didn’t seem to amount to anything. A crowd of men and women stood and watched. Tim didn’t see a smile anywhere.
“I was never what you’d call a religious man,” he whispered to Osker, “but I’ve got to say, this was a terrible thing to happen! I don’t like to look at it, and yet I can’t stop looking.”
“I don’t see how we can get on without the Temple,” said Osker.
They weren’t in the city for an hour before Tim was satisfied that there was indeed a king in Obann now. Everybody said so.
“He saved the city,” a sober, portly, grey-haired woman said. “He came down from Heaven on a giant horse and chased the enemy away. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“I was on the walls when I saw it,” a soldier said. “The waters of the river parted like a great gate, and the king came riding on a monstrous creature that was like a storm come to life. And before you could catch your breath, he slew ten thousand of the Heathen! They’re still burying the bodies.”
Everyone Tim spoke to saw something different, but they all saw the king; and the king was in the city now. The Oligarchs’ Palace was now the King’s Palace, and he lived there. He had an army of two thousand, or five thousand, or ten thousand Heathen who’d sworn blood oaths to him. He was attended by prophets and magicians. He had a champion who’d slain a giant, and special warriors who ate and slept and lived on horseback without ever coming down and spoke only the language of birds. He was of the lineage of King Ozias and had been raised by elves in Lintum Forest—or else by dwarfs in caverns under Bell Mountain, and he came out when King Ozias’ bell was rung.
“I never heard such balderdash in all my days,” Tim said, “but I guess the king is real, at least. The thing is, how do we get to see him?”
“I don’t know if I want to see someone who’s done all those things,” said Osker. “It don’t seem natural, to be raised by dwarfs. And how can it be that we have a king in Obann, but not the Temple?”
“You don’t want to believe in dwarfs and fairies and the like,” Tim said. “I’ve spent most of my life alone in some of the loneliest, wildest parts of the wilderness, and never yet saw hide nor hair of elf or dwarf or giant. But I’ll be satisfied if I can see the king.”
They took lodging in an inn. The rate charged was cheaper than usual, Osker said. The innkeeper said he was glad to have them. “So many people ran away from all the trouble,” he said, “and of course no one was able to get into the city all summer, with the Heathen laying siege. But the king sure sent them packing!”
The next morning they went to the palace, where there were soldiers and guards, some of whom did not speak Obannese and could only stare at them. Tim asked to see the king, and kept on asking, and the next day came back and asked some more. Finally a man-at-arms took pity on him and ushered him into the building, made him sit down in a little room and told him to wait. “You may have a long wait,” the warrior said, “but I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Tim waited all day long with nothing to eat or drink. He kept getting up to pace the room, to stretch, to mutter curses under his breath. But finally the man-at-arms came back, and not alone.
“This is General Hennen, trapper,” he said. “He’s a very important man, and you’re lucky to be seeing him.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said the general. He was a sturdy man, dark-haired, blue-eyed, some good years short of middle-aged. He dismissed the sergeant and turned to Tim. “You’ve asked to see King Ryons. The king likes to meet his people, but he can’t meet everybody. You told the sergeant you’ve come a long way—all the way down from the mouths of the River Winter. That is long! I’ve never been that far north, myself.
“Tell me why you wish to see the king—exactly why—and if I think it’s worthwhile, I’ll arrange an audience.”
“Well, sir, this wasn’t my idea,” Tim said. After hemming and hawing a little, to collect his thoughts, he told the general about Gurun: how she’d come from some unheard-of country amidst the sea, how he’d met her, and that she knew there was a king in Obann when it wasn’t possible that she could know. The general stopped him there and questioned him closely—especially as to what day of the year it was when the girl first spoke of the king. Tim answered as accurately as he could.
“That’s something!” said the general. “At that time of the summer, the city was still surrounded by enemies and King Ryons had never yet set eyes on it.”
General Hennen kept Tim answering questions until well into the evening, learning everything Tim could tell him about Gurun. The general took pity on him and had some bread brought, and ale. The ale was most welcome indeed.
“You shall see the king tomorrow morning, Tim,” Hennen said, “that much I promise you. Come as early as you can; the sergeant will be waiting.”
&
nbsp; “The king will really see me?”
“Yes.”
“Only thing is,” Tim said, “I ain’t got proper clothes for meeting an important personage like that; nor proper manners, neither, if it comes to that.”
“Never mind,” the general said. “The king won’t even notice such things.”
Kings appeared in stories from the Scriptures, from long, long ago. Tim knew very little history; but he did know, as everybody knew, that Ozias was the last king of Obann, ages and ages ago. After him came long ages of wars and chaos, and then the Empire. All Tim knew about any empire was that God had destroyed that one, Obann’s Empire. And then followed countless years of terrible times, and somehow during all of that, a new Temple got built in a new city of Obann—the ruined city across the river remained uninhabited forever—and after they had the Temple, men began to get things back in order. They set up the oligarchy, no king, and that’s how it was. And it was good enough, Tim supposed. No one ever thought of having a king again.
But here and now stood Tim in the presence of a king: and he wanted to laugh because it was just a scrawny little kid. He didn’t dare laugh, though, because General Hennen was there, and a tall old man who looked like he, too, might’ve just stepped out of the Scriptures, and also some fearsome barbarian with a shaved head and blue tattoos on his face. Behind the king stood a couple of small, slant-eyed men who might have come from Elf-land. “What is this world coming to?” Tim wondered.
“I’ve told His Majesty everything you told me yesterday,” the general said. “This is the king’s teacher and counselor, Obst”—that was the tall, old man—“and this is subchief Uduqu, the king’s friend.”
They wanted Tim to tell his story again, the story of Gurun, in his own words. The old man, Obst, was full of questions. The boy king said nothing at all, but he listened most intently. Tim found himself speaking mostly to him, although it wasn’t the king who was asking the questions.
“She came over the sea, out of the North!” Obst said, pondering Tim’s words. “The Old Books do speak of countries far across the sea, but …” he shook his head. “No one sails the seas anymore. Not for centuries! And yet you say this maiden prays to God—our God—and knows the Scriptures—our Scriptures?”
“Yes sir, the very same—and she knows them like a prester,” Tim answered. “In her country, she says, they all do their own praying, and they all learn bits of Scripture by heart, and they have their own books. It’s on account of their being so far away from the Temple, so they couldn’t do the proper religious things.”
Obst actually laughed at that, and the boy king smiled, although Tim didn’t see what was so funny. And then came another several dozen questions: the old man wanted to know everything. Meanwhile the barbarian chief seemed to be asleep on his feet; and the men behind the king’s chair just stood there, not taking in a word of it. But at last the king himself spoke—in Obannese, with a thick Wallekki accent.
“Please, Obst,” he said, “I want to see Gurun! Can’t we have her brought here? Or I could go where she is.”
“I think you should see her, Sire,” Obst said. “I’d like to see her, too! God’s hand is in this, depend on it. How else could she have gotten here from across the sea? And to think there are people living so far away that no one’s ever heard of them or their country, and yet they know the same Scriptures we know and pray to the true God—it makes my head swim. By all means, we must have her here.”
“We can send cavalry for her,” Hennen said.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Tim interrupted, “but it won’t be as easy as all that. Those Blays won’t let Gurun leave, and she wouldn’t want any harm to come to them. But they’re afraid to come to Obann. And then there’s the village—”
“I want to go to her myself,” said the king. “My Ghols will ride with me, and they’ll keep me safe. I want to go!”
The general frowned. “It might not be so easy for the king to get back into Obann, once he leaves it,” he said.
“Hah! Then back we’ll all go to Lintum Forest, and the fools in this city can look after themselves from now on.” That was the barbarian chief, speaking for the first time. His Obannese was better than the king’s. “It won’t hurt His Majesty to take a little ride, and we might as well find out where we stand with these people. If they won’t want him for their king, he shouldn’t have to be their king. It’ll be their loss.”
“Peace, Uduqu!” Obst said. “Ryons is king of Obann by the will of God.”
“Someone will have to govern the city in the king’s name while he’s gone,” Hennen said.
“The council of chiefs can govern,” Obst said. “It’ll only be for a few days.”
So everything was arranged, and King Ryons was delighted. “He does blossom when he smiles,” Tim thought. “But what will Gurun think of him? She’ll be expecting a big, tall, mighty man.”
CHAPTER 24
Men Like Gods
The Griffs led Helki straight back to where they’d left Jack, Ellayne, and Martis, and their blinded chief; but of course they were gone by then. The Griffs expected to find their mardar left behind, dead. But they could read the ground almost as well as Helki and could see the others took Chillith with them when they left the camp.
“What do they want with him?” wondered Tiliqua, the son of Thurr. He could think of no reason why Martis wouldn’t have killed Chillith.
“You boys are going to have to learn some new ways of thinking,” Helki said. “It’s wrong to kill a man because he’s helpless, and most of all to do wrong just because you can. Martis and the children will protect that blind man and feed him.”
“That is a very strange way to behave!” said Shalamoc, the son of Thilmoc.
“The true God is merciful, and He wants us to be like Him,” Helki said. “I know it sounds peculiar; but that’s what Obst says, and he’s our teacher, and I reckon he would know.”
“But Chillith was their enemy,” Shalamoc said. “They could have easily killed him, now that he’s blind.”
The Griffs marveled over this lesson in mercy, and Helki marveled over them. Griffs weren’t a savage people; they had no name for cruelty. But then how many Obannese understood mercy, as Obst taught mercy? Helki knew many men in Lintum Forest who didn’t. Meanwhile the Griffs fanned out in all directions, trying to pick up the trail. But Cavall found it first, and before the end of the day, it led to a ford across the Chariot River.
“They’ve gone into King Oziah’s Wood,” Helki said. “Martis must know they’ll be safe there. The rangers will take care of them. The question is, should we go in after them?”
“We can’t!” Tiliqua said. “Everybody knows it’s death to enter that wood. There are ghosts in there who drink men’s blood.”
“Oh, faw! That’s twaddle,” Helki said. “I could go in alone, and it’d be perfectly safe for me. But Oziah’s Wood has never been a hospitable place for Heathen.”
The Griffs begged him to take them back to Obann and present them to the king, so they could receive amnesty and enter the king’s service. It was hard to turn them down. They were frightened of many things, although they would be brave in a fight, and Helki pitied them. There was just time to get back to Obann before the snows, if they hurried, he thought. And Martis and the children would be safe in Oziah’s Wood, as safe as they could be anywhere in the world.
“I promised the king I’d bring his hound back to him,” Helki said, “so I guess we might as well go to Obann. I can’t bring you men into Oziah’s Wood with me: the rangers might fill you full of arrows before they knew they shouldn’t. We might as well stick together.”
The Griffs cheered; but if they’d known what lay in store for them, they probably wouldn’t have.
Lord Reesh anticipated great things from the future, always provided he lived long enough to see them. Thanks to the road that the Thunder King’s slaves had hacked through the woodlands, Reesh began to think he might last to the end of the jo
urney, after all.
Everything was superbly organized, he thought. When Kyo and his men needed fresh horses, the horses were provided. Food, drink, shelter—all were available at regularly spaced outposts along the way. Whatever the mardar needed was his for the asking.
“Men like gods,” Reesh meditated: for the men of the Empire were like gods, and what men were once, they could be again. “A road through the mountains is a very good start indeed!” For they were on the mountains’ skirts now, and climbing, steadily climbing.
“I hadn’t known the road was so far advanced,” Kyo said. “Now I’m sure we’ll be across the mountains before it snows enough to stop us. Someday there will be one road all the way from Kara Karram to Obann—maybe even to the sea.”
“Someday there will be many roads like that,” Reesh said.
When Kyo had spurred his horse ahead of the coach, Reesh caught Gallgoid looking pensive. “Speak your mind!” the First Prester said. “Hide none of your thoughts from me. I can’t teach you if we don’t talk.”
“I was just thinking,” the assassin said slowly, “that things are going to get dicey when the Thunder King dies. Do they really think he won’t? Can they truly believe he’s a god? And what’s going to happen when they find out that he isn’t?”
“What do you think will happen?” Reesh said.
“I think they’ll stop building roads. I think everything the Thunder King built will be torn down.”
Reesh nodded. “So do I! That’s why the new Temple must be firmly established as soon as possible,” he said. “The Temple must do for East and West what it always did for Obann—hold it together. Be the center: the one thing that never changes, even when everything else changes. Only the Temple can keep man moving toward his destiny.”
The cussetest thing about Gallgoid was that you knew he was thinking his own thoughts—and not the thoughts you wanted him to think!—but you couldn’t pry them out of him. Lord Reesh knew that, and it taxed his patience. It made him miss Orth. There was a man who had no secrets—but burn him for a weakling!
