by Lee Duigon
Helki couldn’t get into the forest, but the rangers could venture out and shower the Heathen with arrows. The rangers’ scouts kept careful watch. They knew at all times where Helki’s little band of warriors was; they understood how badly outnumbered he was; and they did their best to help. And all the Abnaks still in the area flocked to him. Before three days were out, Helki had four hundred men.
Santay, the Abnak chief, was delighted.
“Very funny, Abnaks fighting for Obann!” he said. “The Thunder King’s Wallekki won’t dare enter the forest without us, and the mardars don’t know what to do.”
“I thought they always knew what to do,” Helki said. “I heard they always know just what their master wants them to do, by some black magic that he does.”
“That’s what they told us,” Santay said. “But if it were true, they wouldn’t be in such trouble as they are today. They wouldn’t have accused us of murder and witchcraft; they would have known what to do when the little devils plagued them—and they wouldn’t be getting beaten by us in every fight!”
That afternoon they clashed with a hundred Wallekki horsemen and quickly routed them. The Abnaks scalped as many as they could lay hands on, but Helki was able to preserve a few, unharmed, as prisoners.
“If you boys talk to me, I might be able to save your skins,” he told them. They knew what the Abnaks would do to them if they had the opportunity, so they were eager to cooperate with Helki.
“It’s all gone bad!” said the man they picked to be their spokesman. “At night the devils come and kill us in our sleep. The mardars dance and sing spells, but they can’t stop it. They said it was the Abnaks making witchcraft, but the Abnaks have left us and still the devils come.
“We know who you are—Helki the Rod, Helki Giant-killer. The mardars promised to make magic that would cause you to die: but here we are, your prisoners. And the bowmen shoot at us from the shelter of the wood, and we can’t get at them! Nobody knows what to do.”
“Why should we have made witchcraft?” Santay said. “That was a lie! Some of the men killed by the devils were Abnaks. And yet you Wallekki turned on us!”
“It was the mardars. It was the Thunder King. The mardars said he willed it,” the prisoner said.
There were many Heathen camps between the forest and the river, Helki thought: if they ever came together under one commander, they’d wipe us out in two days. Aloud he asked, “Why haven’t your people regrouped?”
“Because we can’t! Our own chief was killed by an archer yesterday. The Zephites who were with us killed their own mardar and ran away. Nobody knows who’s supposed to be in command.”
Good news to us, Helki thought. Their morale was fading fast.
“Well, now,” he said to the prisoners, “I want to help you men, but I reckon there’s only one way to do it. If you swear an oath on the honor of your clan to ride with us and fight for us, I guess these Abnaks will let you live. We could use horsemen. There’s already thousands of Wallekki fighting for the king of Obann, so you wouldn’t be the first. What do you say?”
The prisoners looked at Santay and at the burly Abnaks around him, standing bare-chested in the snow because the battle had heated their blood. Steam rose from their skins: a daunting sight, thought Helki.
“We would be agreeable to that,” the spokesman said, “if we could trust the Abnaks—and if they can trust us.”
“There’s treason in the service of the Thunder King,” Helki said, “but not in the service of the living God. In His service every man starts with an honorable name and is judged by what he does from then on.”
“But what do the Abnaks say?” asked the prisoner.
Santay frowned. “You Wallekki turned on us when we were serving with you. Maybe the Thunder King’s mardars led you into folly. If you swear to obey Helki the Rod, as we do, you’ll have nothing to fear from us. We have already taken many scalps in payment for the wrong done to us, and we will take more. But not yours.”
Helki ordered the prisoners cut from their bonds, rearmed, and given horses: the Abnaks had captured several dozen fine horses and didn’t know what to do with them. These riders would make useful scouts, he thought, and maybe more Wallekki would join him later on. He would need every man he could get, to drive the Heathen out of this land between the forest and the river.
Angel flew down and settled on his shoulder. The Wallekki saw it and bowed their heads and kissed their fingertips, saluting him.
“Among our tribes,” said one, “only the greatest and most noble chiefs have hawks.”
“I’m not great and I’m not noble,” Helki said. But Tiliqua the Griff, standing beside him, grinned and said, “He doesn’t have to be great or noble—he’s Helki the Rod, the Flail of the Lord!”
The men cheered, and Helki sighed.
CHAPTER 42
How Ellayne Carried Out Her Plan
Most of the rangers rushed to the southern fringe of King Oziah’s Wood to harass the reeling Heathen army. They left a screen of bowmen in the north, but the hot fighting was all in the south. In the north, those Heathen who weren’t still hunting Abnaks were trying to make their way around the forest to reinforce the units in the south.
Martis longed to join the fighting, but wouldn’t leave Jack and Ellayne. They, with Chillith, remained some safe miles away from the forest’s edge. Huell and most of his men had gone to battle, leaving only four men to guard their camp and run messages from north to south.
It was quiet in the forest now, Jack thought. He supposed most of the birds had flown south for the winter. The birds that remained had maybe gone to watch the fighting. Jack wished he could go. It’d be better than watching the light snow fall, on and off, every day.
Wytt was off somewhere in the woods, doing they knew not what. Chillith sat over his campfire day and night, brooding. Ellayne had not yet spoken to Martis about following Chillith up the mountain. “Not much point in doing that,” she told Jack, “until we see Wytt again.”
One night everyone in the camp went to sleep; and when Jack woke early the next morning, he found himself alone in the shelter.
Ellayne had gotten up first, he thought: nothing to that. When he crawled out of the shelter, he didn’t see her anywhere around the camp. Chillith’s fire was out. One of the rangers was up, engaged in restarting his own campfire.
“Have you seen Ellayne?” Jack asked him. The man said no. “How long have you been up?”
“An hour. I got up just before sunup.”
“Now where the mischief is she?” Jack wondered. If she’d gone a little distance into the woods to do her morning business, she would’ve returned by now. The ranger would have seen her. It was mighty cold this morning to be just fatzing around in the woods.
Maybe he should worry. He went to the shelter where Martis and Chillith slept, and called for Martis to come out. Fortunately Martis was the kind of man whom it was easy to awaken.
“What’s the matter, Jack?”
“I can’t find Ellayne.”
Martis had crawled out of the low shelter, but at those words he shot to his feet. He looked all around.
“Where’s Chillith?” he said. “Have you seen him?” Jack shook his head. He’d thought Chillith must be in the shelter, sleeping. Martis gripped him by the shoulders. “Tell me what this is all about—quickly!”
“I don’t know!” Jack said. “Chillith said he had to see the Thunder King. He had to go. He wanted Wytt to take him up the mountain, but Ellayne said Wytt would never leave us, so all three of us would have to follow Chillith without him knowing—” Jack stopped himself. Suddenly his stomach clenched. “Roast her hide! They’ve gone without us!”
Martis searched the powdery snow around the children’s shelter. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for: Wytt’s tiny footprints. That made the story plain.
“She said she believed Chillith. I guess she really did,” Jack said. “But why would she sneak off without us? I’l
l knock her down when we catch her!”
Martis shook his head. “She meant well, Jack,” he said. “The fewer who go, the fewer who can get caught. Foolish, but it shows a noble spirit.” Jack snorted, but Martis said, “Get something to eat and fill your pack. We’ve got to go after her.”
Martis was right. For all three of them to go chasing after Chillith would be stupid, Ellayne thought. All along it had been her plan to be the only one to go.
When Wytt crept into the shelter that night, Ellayne had shushed him and crawled outside, careful not to wake Jack. After she told Wytt what she wanted to do, she sent him to wake Chillith. Everyone else in the camp remained asleep. Not a soul stirred, not even when Ellayne stepped on a piece of firewood and snapped it.
“Wytt won’t go unless I go, too,” she told the Griff. “So either take me with you or don’t go at all. Tonight may be the only chance we have to give Jack and Martis the slip.”
When they were out of earshot of the camp, following Wytt down a path he chose for them, Chillith pleaded with Ellayne. “It’s a shame for a man to take a girl-child into danger,” he said. “Why do you want to do this?”
“Because I believe you,” Ellayne said, “because I want the Thunder King to be destroyed and for all of this war to be over and done with—so Jack and I and everyone else can go home.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous? That’s a laugh! Jack and I have been in more danger than you ever dreamed of. We climbed Bell Mountain. We went under the ruins of the Old Temple. And that’s not even the half of it!” She sighed. “We’ve been in more dangers than Abombalbap himself—so don’t worry about me!”
“Jack and Martis will follow us,” Chillith said.
“I know. But as long as we can stay ahead of them, that’s good. If we get into trouble, they might come along in time to save us. We mustn’t get too far ahead of them. Anyhow, it’s good for the four of us to be split up like this.”
“If the rangers catch us, they’ll make us go back.”
“Don’t be silly,” Ellayne said. “The rangers are much too busy to bother about us.”
Wytt led them along narrow paths. Maybe these belonged to the Forest Omah and the rangers didn’t know them. Between the moonlight and the snow, it wasn’t hard to see and they made good time, Ellayne leading Chillith by the hand. Except for when they spoke, the forest by night in winter was as quiet as a grave.
Ellayne thought she was following in the footsteps of Abombalbap. “Maybe someday there’ll be books about our adventures,” she thought. “How Ellayne and Jack climbed Bell Mountain and rang the bell—that’d make a story.”
But at the same time she understood that this blind Heathen, whose hand she was holding, was a prophet answering a summons from the Lord—not even his own Lord, and a summons that would probably cost him his life. Then it seemed mighty childish to be thinking of Abombalbap.
It amused her to imagine how angry Jack would be when he discovered that she’d tricked him, but she was already missing him. She hoped he and Martis would never be very far behind.
CHAPTER 43
How Gurun Received a Gift
The maid, Bronna, knocked on Gurun’s door, and the Ghol on guard, Kutchuk, opened it for her so she could bring in Gurun’s breakfast tray.
“Wake up, my lady. It’s going to be a beautiful day.” She set down the tray and opened the curtains, letting the sun shine in. Gurun sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. There was something about this bed that made her sleep longer than she usually did.
“Don’t call me ‘my lady,’ Bronna. I am not a lady,” she said.
Outside in the hallway, another Ghol came up and spoke to Kutchuk. “Our father wants to see the girl this morning. I think he wants her to ride East with us, but doesn’t want to say so.”
Gurun sat up straighter. She hadn’t thought any of the Ghols could speak Obannese. But then Kutchuk startled her by answering in that language: “I don’t think she’d like being left behind. She has a mind of her own, that one.”
“Kutchuk!” she called. “When did you learn to speak Obannese?”
He stepped into the room and looked at her quizzically. “Obannese? Not me! But I didn’t know you could speak the language of the Ghols. You speak it much, much better than our father does.”
Bronna looked from one speaker to the other, thoroughly confused. Gurun and Kutchuk were conversing in mutually unintelligible languages.
“I hear you speaking Obannese, Kutchuk! Why do you deny it? As for me, I understand not a single word of Gholish.”
His eyes widened, and then he grinned. “I see, I see!” he said. “You do what our teacher Obst can do. Every man can understand him when he speaks, and he understands whatever anybody says. You must be a prophet, like him.”
She’d heard of Obst’s God-given mastery of tongues: he, too, woke up with it one day.
“But how could it be?” she said. “I’m no prophet. I’m only sixteen years old!”
Kutchuk laughed. “The prophet who told us that Ryons was to be our king was just a little girl—only so high!” He held his palm just three feet from the floor. “And how old is our father, King Ryons? Not so old as you. No, honeysuckle—you’re old enough.”
“Honeysuckle?”
“Just a name we Ghols have for a good girl.”
Gurun, who slept in a shift—another luxury that was new to her—threw aside her blanket. “Bronna, help me find my clothes. Kutchuk, take me to Obst right away.”
“But your breakfast, my lady—”
“I’ll wait outside,” said Kutchuk.
Obst didn’t want to go East with the army. There was more work for him to do here in the city than he’d ever dreamed of. But he would have to go—the council of chiefs couldn’t function without him.
How he missed his cottage in the forest! What could be more perfect than a rainy day in the spring, and nothing to do but read the Scriptures and commune with the spirit of the Lord? The rain trickling down from the thatched roof, the robins and the redbirds singing in the trees, and sometimes a squirrel sitting on his windowsill—and prayer, uninterrupted prayer: Obst longed for it with all his heart. “But God has placed me here,” he mused, and sighed.
This morning he was closeted with a seminary preceptor, pleading with him. The preceptor was a short, stocky, solid man who sat there like a rock.
“Don’t you see?” Obst said. “Yes, the Temple is no more—but that only makes the chamber houses and the presters and the reciters more important than ever.
“We need your scholars to copy the Scriptures and render them into modern speech so the people can read them and be instructed in them in all the chamber houses everywhere. Don’t you see? God wants the whole world now to be His Temple.”
The preceptor listened, but his expression never changed. Obst felt like shaking him. Everything had changed! Why couldn’t they understand?
“We aren’t even sure your newfound books of Scripture are genuine,” said the preceptor.
“Then study them!” Obst said. “Forsooth, they were found in sealed jars below the cellars of the ruined Temple in Old Obann. God Himself, through prophets, revealed their existence.”
“Prophets!” the preceptor snorted. “They were hanging so-called prophets in this city, and the Temple never objected.”
At that moment came a knock on the door. It was one of Ryons’ Ghols, with Gurun.
“Your pardon, Teacher—but she says she has to see you. A very wonderful thing has happened to her!”
Gurun strode past him into the room. “Say something to me in a Heathen language!” she demanded.
“Allow me,” said the preceptor. He rattled off something that very few people living would have understood.
“You have only recited one of Prophet Jarma’s proverbs: ‘He who wishes to be deceived will be deceived, and that out of his own mouth,’” Gurun said. “That was no foreign language.”
The preceptor’s eyebr
ows rose. “You are a scholar, maiden,” he said. “But I rendered it into Old Wallekki.”
“I know nothing of Wallekki, old or new,” she said. “But when you spoke the verse, I heard it in the language of Obann. And I understand the Ghols’ speech, too! When I went to bed last night, I couldn’t. Now I can.”
“What is this?” said the preceptor. But of course Obst knew what it was. He turned to the Ghol and told him to fetch Uduqu and Chief Zekelesh of the Fazzan: “And hurry, please!”
When the two chiefs arrived, Obst bade them speak to Gurun in their native languages. She understood what they said and translated perfectly.
“Now you see for yourself, preceptor,” Obst said. “This maiden has received the gift of tongues—even as I have, too. It’s the gift of God.”
“Or a trick, perhaps,” said the preceptor.
“Oh, go to!” Gurun snapped. “I come from Fogo Island, far away across the sea. I never heard of the countries these chiefs come from, much less ever learned their languages.” She turned to Zekelesh, who still hadn’t learned a word of Obannese. “Chieftain, did you understand what I just said to this man?”
“Yes—you speak Fazzan very well indeed,” said Zekelesh: but he meant that as a jest. He was used to seeing what Obst could do.
“Surely you can see the hand of God in this!” Obst said. “Surely you can see what great works God is doing in our time.”
The preceptor sighed. “I have seen more changes in the past year than I’ve seen in all my life,” he said. “I’m not a fool, hermit. I’m a scholar, with a scholar’s caution. I will not abandon that caution now.
“But to this I’ll agree, that seminary students should copy out the Scriptures to be disseminated to the chamber houses. They need something to keep them out of trouble, as you well know. And I myself will examine those scrolls from Old Obann.”
“Thank you!” said Obst.
“We’ll talk again soon,” said the scholar.
