by Lee Duigon
The silent mob began to murmur. Reesh recognized Gallgoid’s voice, but no one else would have—not when he spoke in that coarse North Country accent.
“You’re talking treason, you—and you a prester of the Temple! How much did the Heathen pay you for it? Let’s all see the money!”
His concentration broken, Rhunwigg made but a feeble answer.
“My people, I have only spoken truth!” he said. “For too long you have been deaf to the voice of the Lord. You listen to lies, but turn away from truth. You have rejected the compassion—”
“Reject this, traitor!”
The crowd roared. Reesh didn’t dare move forward to see what had been done. Let the mob get one glimpse of his face, and it would turn on him—a false prester who killed the prophets. So he stood in the shadows and listened to the sounds of tumult. But he heard no further word from Rhunwigg.
Later it was reported to him by the chamberlain of the grounds that some common man in the crowd that thrown a stone at Rhunwigg and knocked him down the steps; and the inflamed mob trampled him to death, somehow. Judge Tombo’s men came in time only to carry away the body.
“It is a pity!” Lord Reesh said to the chamberlain. “What evil could have poisoned Prester Rhunwigg’s heart? May God have mercy on his soul.”
That night he sat up in bed, carefully weighing the words he would have to say to Mardar Kyo. If the Temple was to be reborn in the East, with the right men in charge of it, there was no more time to lose.
Obst sat up, too, reading a scroll by lantern light. He’d read these passages during the day, but he wanted to read them again. They troubled him.
This was what Ozias wrote, when he was an old man hiding in the ruins of the Temple: “Woe to the temple; woe to the priests! For you confine My name within your walls, and stop the people’s ears against My voice. You have made a prison for My words, and it is your own words that the people hear.
“Woe to the priests who are no priests! Therefore will I speak to a people who are not My people, and therefore shall My wrath break down the prison. I shall overflow like the waters of a flood, I shall rage like a fire in the forest.
“For the incense that you burn to Me is an abomination, and your prayers are vain repetitions that offend My ears: you rob Me of My honor, and make My people to forget Me. For these sins and for more, I will not spare your temple.”
Obst paused and rubbed his eyes. Why should Ozias have written this, after the Temple he knew was destroyed? Was this a prophecy concerning the fate of the Imperial Temple, or this temple in the new city?
“Isn’t it time you went to bed, old man?”
It was Uduqu. Obst hadn’t heard him come up. The burly subchief lit a dried bean in the flame of the lantern and sat down beside Obst to smoke.
“I never used to see the sense of reading,” Uduqu said. “We Abnaks never bother with it. What do you have there, that keeps you up so late?”
“The Word of God to King Ozias, foretelling the destruction of the Temple in Obann,” said Obst. “But I don’t understand whether the prophecy refers to the Imperial Temple or our own. It could be both.”
Uduqu blew a puff of smoke, a quizzical look on his fiercely tattooed face. “Can God, and a king who died hundreds and hundreds of years ago, really talk to you out of that piece of sheep’s hide?”
Obst nodded. “Yes! They speak to me in their own words, as if they and I were face to face.”
“And if those words mean that the Temple that’s in Obann now will be destroyed,” said Uduqu, “the enemy couldn’t do that unless first they took the city. Which makes me wonder why we’re going there.”
“Me, too,” Obst admitted. “But I trust God will make it clear, in time—maybe even in another one of these scrolls. I still have two or three more to read.”
“Ah, well—give me a sharp axe, and room to swing it. That’s what I say. Even so …” Uduqu paused, then lowered his voice as if he feared to let anyone but Obst hear what he was going to say next. “I wonder if you could teach me how to read—I mean, if I’m not too old to learn. But I think I would like to be able to read God’s own words. I mean, if He doesn’t mind.”
Slowly, Obst smiled at him. He felt like hugging him. He felt like springing up and rejoicing. But he only said, “He won’t! Indeed, it would greatly please Him, Chieftain.”
Uduqu grinned. “I’ll be the first Abnak who could read!” he said. “Now, then—how do you do it?”
So Obst began to teach Uduqu how to read, and the two old men were late to their beds that night.
CHAPTER 28
The Griffs Return
The best thing they could do, Martis thought, would be to go back to Gilmy.
“And we’ll be lucky if we make it,” he said. “I don’t know what they’re looking for, but the enemy has scouts all over this country.”
“Can’t we catch up to Helki’s army?” Ellayne asked.
“We don’t know where it is.”
It was a long way back to Gilmy, three days’ march with Martis on foot and Jack and Ellayne riding Dulayl. It rained all day the first day, and when they happened on an abandoned barn—the farmhouse had been burned down—they decided to stop there.
“It’s two hours earlier than I wanted to stop,” Martis said, “but I don’t think you’ll want to camp out in the rain.” He was worried that the barn might also appeal to enemy scouts seeking shelter from the rain, but he decided to risk it. He’d heard somewhere that children would get sick if they stayed out in bad weather.
There was straw in the barn for Ham and Dulayl to eat, and plenty left over to sleep in; but Martis wouldn’t let them build a fire. “It’s just possible someone might be able to see the light shining through a chink in the walls,” he said.
So they couldn’t get dry, couldn’t get warm, couldn’t eat hot food, but could only nestle in the straw and listen to pigeons cooing in the rafters overhead. Martis had brought along extra rations, so they had bread, cheese, and a mouthful of smoked fish for supper. Rain rattled on the roof, but the barn didn’t leak too badly.
As uncomfortable as they were, they were still too tired to stay awake for long. They didn’t wake in the morning until Wytt screeched and jabbed Martis with his stick—just moments before the wobbly door flew open with a crash. Wytt dove into the straw and disappeared. Dulayl kicked his stall and whinnied loudly, destroying any hope they had of hiding.
“Show yourselves, or it will go worse with you!”
Morning light poured through the open door. Crowding into the doorway were a dozen Griffs, knives drawn, ready for a fight. But Martis couldn’t fight twelve men. He took the children’s hands, and they rose up together out of the straw in which they’d slept. Jack’s heart sank when he recognized the two men who’d run away when Martis and Dulayl attacked them. One had his shoulder thickly bandaged; Dulayl must have given him a bad bite. “We’ve had it now!” Jack thought.
“Men of the Griff,” said Martis, “surely you can’t hold it against a man for rescuing his grandsons from slavery. Any one of you would have done the same.”
“You are unlucky today,” said their spokesman, in good Obannese. “Outside with you!”
Martis kept hold of the children’s hands and meekly led them out of the barn. The rain had stopped. It was a bright, clear morning, and raindrops shone like diamonds on the green grass.
Martis was shocked to find a hundred Griffs waiting for them, a few of them on horseback. Their captors made them stop before a mounted man who looked very different from the others. All his hair was shaved off, and the top half of his face painted dark blue. Griffs did not so decorate themselves, but this man was a Griff: Martis recognized the raised scars on his forearms that marked a Griff of chief’s blood who’d been initiated into the secret rites of shamans—those who communed with the devils that served the Griffs as gods. But even shamans didn’t shave their heads. Among the Griffs, long hair, elaborately piled, was the fashion.
; “So you are the man who drove off three of my warriors and took these children from them.” This man spoke perfect Obannese. “Not a bad day’s work for a man with a white beard!”
“Your honor speaks our language as one born and raised to it,” said Martis, “and yet your honor is a shaman among the Griffs.”
“And you are well versed in polite speech, as it is practiced among us,” answered the Griff. “In my youth I sojourned in your country and served in your militia as a scout. What’s your name, grandfather?”
“Martis.”
“I am Chillith, son of Maglag the chief. I have the honor to serve the Thunder King, the lord of all the world: I am one of his mardars, albeit a lesser one.
“It is not permitted, Martis, to kill a man who serves the Thunder King. We might have been friends, otherwise. I like a brave man who speaks well. But for your actions you must die very slowly and in great pain. Your cries of agony will comfort the spirit of the man you slew and please my lord the Thunder King. I’m sorry, but that’s our law.” He turned to some of the men on foot. “Strip him, then bind him.”
The men took only one step toward Martis when Jack cried out.
“Stop!Stop!” He hardly knew what he was saying. All he could think of was to save Martis. “You don’t know who we are!
“Didn’t you hear the bell ring on Bell Mountain? The whole world heard it, so you must have, too. And it was the three of us who were up on top of the mountain—we rang the bell. God Himself sent us!”
Ellayne chimed in. She’d paid a little more attention than Jack had to certain things that Obst and Helki and others had talked about, and she knew what a mardar was.
“You can’t just kill him!” she said. “He had a brown beard when he went up the mountain, and God turned it white, just like that—it was a sign! He’s under God’s protection! And he was a servant of the Temple and knows all its secrets. Terrible things will happen to you, if you harm him!”
She knew a mardar was a special servant of the Thunder King, something like a prester in the service of the Temple and something like a magician, too. She was sure the mardar would have to stop and consider what she’d said, and she was right.
Chillith held up a hand and stopped his men. He glared at Martis. “Is this true?” he said.
Martis nodded. He’d grasped instantly what Jack and Ellayne were doing. He would have forbidden them to speak of these things, but it was too late now.
“Your honor, it is true,” he said. “We three climbed Bell Mountain. These two children rang the bell, which you heard. In ancient days, that bell was hung in obedience to God, so that when it finally sounded, He would hear it.
“You should know the Temple of Obann feared the bell, and feared these children. If your honor is wise, your honor will fear them, too. Surely your lord the Thunder King heard the bell, and will not thank your honor for depriving him of the chance to question those who rang the bell. For we are all three of us servants of the living God.”
If Chillith had not spent so much time in Obann in his younger days, he would not have known of the legend of the bell. He would not have known of the great power of the Temple, nor realized how serious a thing it was for the Temple to be afraid of anything. But he did know all those things, and understand them; and it came to his mind that if he brought these three prisoners to the Thunder King, he might be raised to the highest rank of the Great Man’s mardars.
“You have purchased your life, Martis—at least for the time being,” he said. “I shall take you to my master the Thunder King so that he might question you. The children, too. No harm shall come to you by me.”
He issued orders to his men, who tied ropes around the prisoners’ necks—not to choke, but to keep them from trying to escape. Others led Ham and Dulayl out of the barn.
Wytt had vanished. Ellayne prayed he would stay out of sight. What could he do, no bigger than a good-sized rat, against these scores of tall warriors? But she would miss him cuddling in her arms.
“You shouldn’t have spoken,” Martis said softly, as the ropes were tied around their necks.
“And let them just kill you in front of us? Not a chance!” Jack said.
“Besides,” said Ellayne, “it’s a long, long way to where we’re going. Something might happen. We might get away.”
Chillith overheard that. He bent in his saddle.
“You won’t get away, little boy,” he said, “and it’s better not to try—much better. Obann’s God is strong, but the Thunder King is stronger. Else I wouldn’t be here, in the middle of your country, as a conqueror.”
Once the prisoners were securely under guard, Chillith marched his men into the east. He didn’t send a messenger back to Obann to tell the other mardars where he was going, or why. Martis noticed that, and kept it in his mind for future use.
CHAPTER 29
The Voice of God
Ryons knew how to tell directions by the position of the sun. That was how he learned that the deep, rolling, musical bellow of the unseen giant always came from someplace south of wherever he happened to be.
“Now that’s very odd!” he said to Cavall. “Why does it never sound like it’s coming from the east or from the west or from the north?”
The Wallekki told tales of great jinns that lived in the desert, and how you could hear them howling at night when the wind blew over the sands. When the jinns howled, travelers said, there was sure to be a sandstorm. Ryons wondered if there might be a jinn or something like it in this country—but in this case, maybe, a good jinn that protected him. However, he had never heard any stories about good jinns. Men who had to cross the desert feared them.
He still had no idea of how far he was from Obann. Had he known the country better, he would have known that the bunches of glossy black berries on the ink-bushes were a sure sign of the end of summer; and he would have worried about getting to the city, or to any city, before the winter caught him on the open plain.
There—he heard it again, the voice of the south. It seemed to him that the voice was trying to hurry him northward. Could that be possible?
“If it was an animal, Cavall, we would’ve seen it by now,” he said. “If it was a jinn hunting us, it would have caught us: they travel on the wind. If it was a giant, we would have seen its head peeking over the hills.” He’d heard that in the far, far north, where no man in his right mind would ever go, there were giants. “But I don’t think they have giants in the south—not that I ever heard.”
Growing up as a slave, the boy was never taught things; he only overheard them. He used to hide and listen to the storytellers tell of jinns and giants. Obst had taught him a little, but hadn’t had the chance to teach him much.
And so he wondered if the voice belonged to God—because, after all, God had promised to be with him on his journey. Maybe his prayers weren’t as ineffective as he thought.
Nanny Witkom, too, believed she heard the voice of God as she journeyed to Obann. But to her He spoke in words, encouraging her to go on.
For truth to tell, she was weary beyond any weariness she’d ever known. Caring for a houseful of children was nothing compared to this journey.
“Lord,” she prayed, “I’m tired! So very tired. These old bones were never made for riding on a donkey’s back all day, every day. I’ll do my best, but I’m afraid the next time I lay me down to sleep, I won’t get up again.”
“Daughter, fear not,” said the Voice that wrapped itself around her like a blanket. “I will provide help for you: tomorrow you shall have it. Be still, and let Me add to your strength.”
A gentle breeze blew up, a west wind carrying a salt taste of the sea. For an unaccountable moment Nanny yearned to see the great waters. But the breeze was to her as a drink of cool, sweet water to a thirsty traveler, and she breathed it in gratefully and sat up straighter on the donkey.
It was not going to be so hard to cross the river after all. The men from Caryllick went out in front of the army and spread the
word that this was no Heathen host, but friends and allies who had fought hard for Obann. They were farther downriver now than any of the Thunder King’s armies had yet come, and the people were still in their towns and villages. When it became known that this friendly force had need to cross the river, the people were eager to help; and when they heard that these were troops from uncouth and barbarous nations far away, people came from miles around to see them.
“I don’t like the way they stare at us,” Shaffur grumbled. Women and children lined the road to watch the army pass. “They point at us and jabber like monkeys in the trees.”
Somehow, no one knew how, the whole country seemed to know of Helki’s feat of giant-slaying. As he strode at the head of King Ryons’ army, there was more pointing and jabbering at him than at anybody else.
“You’re famous,” said Hennen, the captain from Caryllick. “Everybody wants to see the giant-killer. You are the Wild Man who came out of Lintum Forest. They aren’t sure whether you’ve killed five giants, four, or only three. The story grows in the telling.”
“I kind of wish I hadn’t killed the one,” said Helki.
But because people wanted to help the famous giant-killer, and tell their grandchildren that they’d seen him, by the time the army reached the point along the river where Helki wished to cross, every boat and barge in the vicinity had been placed at his disposal and hundreds of men were already felling trees and making rafts. The chieftains quickly organized the available boats into a ferry service, getting the Wallekki and the Attakotts across the river first, to scout out the country. For there on the north bank of the river, the army would turn back to Obann.
“And do what, once we get there, I don’t know,” Helki said. “Preach to these people tonight, Obst—to our men, and to this crowd that’s come to see us off. I could do with some good preaching.”
