“Doubt it,” Hadrian said. “Gold is a bit heavy for horses to pull.”
Arista moved around the room, her eyes searching.
“What is the horn supposed to look like?” Royce asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” she said. “But I think it is in the coffin. In fact, I know it is. Esrahaddon placed it there for Nevrik. We need to open it.”
Magnus wedged his chisel under the stone lid and Hadrian, Gaunt, and Mauvin took up positions around the lid. Myron held the lantern high as the dwarf struck his hammer to the spike. The men heaved the lid off.
Inside lay the coffin. Wrought of solid gold, it was body-shaped and sculpted to depict a face, hands, and clothing. They all stared at the image of a small slender man with angled eyes and prominent cheekbones wearing an elaborate helm.
“I don’t understand,” Gaunt said. “What-what are we seeing?”
“It’s only a case,” Mauvin said. “Just decoration. We need to open this one too.”
The nimble fingers of the dwarf found latches and popped them, and everyone helped lift the lid. Once more, they all peered in. Before them lay the remains of Novron the Great.
Hadrian had expected a pile of brittle decaying bones, perhaps even dust, but instead they found a body complete with skin, hair, and clothes. The cloth was gray and rotted such that their breath caused it to flake. The skin was still intact but dry and dark like smoked beef. The eyes were gone, only cavities remaining, but the corpse was remarkably preserved.
“How is this possible?” Gaunt asked.
“Amazing,” Myron said.
“Indeed,” Magnus put in.
“It can’t be,” Mauvin declared.
Hadrian looked at the face in fascination. Like the outer lid, it was sharp and delicate in feature, with angled eyes and unmistakably pointed ears. The hands were elegant, with long thin fingers still graced with three rings, one of gold, another silver, and one of black stone. They were neatly folded over a metal box on which were scraped the words To Nevrik From Esrahaddon
“Careful,” Royce said, studying the hands.
“There’s something there,” Arista told him. “I sense magic.”
“You should if it’s the horn, right?” Hadrian asked.
“It’s not the horn. It’s something on the box-a charm of some kind.”
“It will likely strike dead anyone but the heir,” Magnus guessed.
They all looked to Gaunt.
“Can’t I just poke it with a stick or something?” he asked.
“Esrahaddon wouldn’t have done anything that could hurt you,” Arista told him. “Go on, take it. He left it for you, more or less.”
Gaunt took hold of his medallion and rubbed, then reached out and grabbed hold of the box, pulling it free of Novron’s hands.
Sconces around the walls burst into blue flame. A cold breeze coursed around the tomb and Gaunt dropped the box.
“Welcome, Nevrik, mine old friend,” a voice said, and they all spun to see the image of Esrahaddon standing before them. He was dressed in the same robe Arista wore, except it was perfectly white. He looked the same as when Hadrian had last seen him in Ratibor.
“If thine ears to these words attest, then terror’s shadow hast fled and thou art emperor. Wish I but knew if Jerish stood at thy side. On chance that dreams abide in mortal spheres, I offer to him that which I withheld in life-my gratitude, my admiration, and my love.
“Stained upon my hands, the blood of innocents brands my soul with such a crime forgiveness gapes appalled. ’Tis my sin that shattered stone and rent flesh. ’Twas I who laid waste to our beloved home. Though to speak of it now feels like folly, for yet hath spark been struck. Still, committed am I. For not a breath nor heartbeat flutter can be granted onto a single Cenzar or Teshlor when the morrow comes. Their evil with me shall I take, the threat resolved, the night consumed, that thou may walk beneath the sun of a better day.
“Convinced stand I, here within these hallowed halls of thy father’s reckoning and their solemn rest, certain that Mawyndule yet lives. Their whispers become a wail as mine eyes focus upon a murder left two thousand years unavenged. Foul is the spirit that haunts these walls, for beyond imaginings are the depths to which his depravity strains. We knew but half! Banned by horn and god alike, ’tis my belief the fiend aims with intent to outlast the law. A crevice hath he found and stretched to slip, for no restriction blocks his way should after a trio of a thousand years he survive. I go now to ensure he does not. While master beyond my art, my art will end him. To slay a fiend, a fiend I must become. Murderer of thousands, I will be stained and accept this as price paid for extinguishing this flame that seeks consumption of all.
“The horn be thine. Render it safe. Deliver it unto thine children with warning against the day of challenge to present same at Avempartha. Look to Jerish as champion-the secrets of the Instarya remain the thread upon which all hope dangles.
“Fare thee well, emperor’s son, mine emperor, my student, my friend. Know that I go now to face Mawyndule honored to die that you might live. Make me proud-be a good ruler.”
Esrahaddon’s image vanished as quickly as it had appeared and the fires in the sconces died, leaving them once more with only the light of the lantern between them and the darkness.
“Did everyone catch that? I wish I had something to write it down with,” Hadrian said. Then, noticing Myron, he smiled. “Even better.”
Royce knelt down and examined the box. There was no lock and he carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a ram’s horn. It was plain, without gold, silver, gems, or velvet. The only adornment it possessed were numerous markings that ringed the surface, letters in a language he could not read but that he recognized.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Magnus observed.
Royce placed the horn back in the box.
“What does this all mean?” Mauvin asked. Looking doleful, he sat down on a gold chair in the pile of treasure. His eyes moved from one to another, searching.
“Novron was an elf,” Royce said. “A pure-blooded elf.”
“The first true emperor, the savior of mankind, wasn’t even a man?” Magnus muttered.
“How can that be?” Mauvin asked. “He led the war against the elves. Novron defeated the elves!”
“Legends tell of Novron falling in love with Persephone. Perhaps he did it out of love,” Myron offered as he wandered around the room, looking at the objects.
“Techylor and Cenzlyor were elves, then?” Hadrian said. “They may even have been Novron’s actual brothers.”
“That explains the small number of sarcophagi,” Myron pointed out. “The generations were longer. Oh! And Old Speech isn’t old speech at all-it’s elvish. The native language of the first emperor. Imagine that. The language of the church is not similar to elvish… it is elvish.”
“That’s why Thranic was lopping heads off statues,” Royce said. “They were accurate depictions of the emperors, and perhaps Cenzlyor and Techylor.”
“But how could it have happened?” Mauvin asked. “How could an elf be the emperor? This has to be a mistake! Novron is the son of Maribor, sent to save us from the elves-the elves are-”
“Yes?” Royce asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mauvin said, shaking his head. “But this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
“It isn’t what the church wanted to be known,” Royce said. “That’s why they locked up Edmund Hall. They knew. Saldur knew, Ethelred knew, Braga knew-”
“Braga!” Arista exclaimed. “That’s what he meant! Before he died, he said something about Alric and me not being human-about letting filth rule. He thought we were elves! Or that we had retained at least some elven blood. If the Essendons were heirs to Novron, then we would have. That’s the secret-that’s why they have hunted the heir. The church has been trying to wipe out the line of Novron so that elves would no longer rule mankind. That’s what Venlin was trying to do. That’s how he persuaded the Teshlor Guild and the Cenzar Council t
o unite against the emperor-for the greater good of mankind-to rid them of elven rule.”
“Instarya,” Myron muttered from the corner, where he looked at a worn and battered shield that hung in a place of prominence.
“What’s that?” Hadrian asked.
“The markings on the shield here,” he said. “They are of the elven tribe Instarya, the warriors. Novron was from the Instarya clan.”
Arista asked, “Why was it that Novron fought his own people?”
“None of this matters,” Gaunt told them. “We’re still trapped. Unless one of you spotted a door I didn’t see. This treasure-filled tomb is a dead end unless, of course, blowing on this does something.” Gaunt looked down at the horn.
“No, wait!” Arista shouted, but it was too late.
Everyone cringed as Gaunt lifted the horn to his lips and blew.
Nothing happened.
Not even a sound emanated from the instrument. Gaunt merely turned red-faced, his cheeks puffed out silently as if he were performing a pantomime of a trumpeter. He looked down at it, frustrated. He put his eye to the mouthpiece and peered inside. He stuck his pinky finger in and wiggled it around, then tried to blow it again. Nothing. He blew again and again and then finally threw it to the floor, disgusted. Without a word, he walked to the chariot and sat down, putting his back against a golden spoked wheel.
Arista picked up the instrument and turned it over in her hands. It was just a simple horn, a bit over a foot in length, with a pleasant arc. It was dark, almost black, near the point and faded rapidly to near white at the wide end. Several rings of finely etched markings circled it. There was nothing special about it. The horn just looked old.
“Myron?” she called, and the monk looked up from the treasures. “Can you read any of this?”
Myron took the horn near the lantern and peered at it. “It’s Old Speech-or elvish, I suppose, now isn’t it?” He looked at the horn and squinted, his mouth and nose crinkled up as his eyes worked and his fingers rotated the horn. “Ah!”
“What?”
“It says ‘ Sound me, ’O son of Ferrol, spake argument with thine lord, by mine voice wilt thee challenge, no longer by the sword.’ ”
“What does that mean?” Mauvin asked.
Myron shrugged.
“Is that all?” Arista asked.
“No there’s more. It also says: Gift am I, of Ferrol’s hand these laws to halt the chaos be, No king shall die, no tyrant cleaved save by the perilous sound of me. Cursed the silent hand that strikes forever to his brethren lost, Doomed of darkness and of light so be the tally and the cost. Breath upon my lips announce the gauntlet loud so all may hear, Thine challenge for the kingly seat so all may gather none need fear. But once upon a thousand three unless by death I shall cry, No challenge, no dispute proceed a generation left to die. Upon the sound, the sun shall pass and with the rising of the new, Combat will begin and last until there be but one of two. A bond formed betwixt opponents protected by Ferrol’s hand, From all save the blade, the bone, and skill of the other’s hand. Should champion be called to fight evoked is the Hand of Ferrol, Which protects the championed from all and champion from all-save one-from peril. Battle is the end for one for the other all shall sing. For when the struggle at last is done the victor shall be king.
“It’s not a weapon at all,” Hadrian said. “It’s just a horn. It’s used to announce a ceremonial challenge for the right of leadership, like throwing down a gauntlet or slapping someone’s face. Myron, remember you told us that the elves had troubles in the old days with infighting between the clans? This must have been the solution. How the elves decide who rules them. It said that they are only allowed to challenge once-What did you say? A thousand and three years?”
“I actually think that means once every three thousand years.”
“Right, well, Novron must have used it to challenge the king of the elves to combat and won, ending the war and making himself king of both the elves and men.”
“I don’t see how this helps us,” Gaunt said. “Why did we bother coming down here? How is this supposed to stop the elven army?”
“By blowing it, Gaunt just announced his challenge for the right to rule them,” Arista said. “ ‘ So all may gather none need fear. ’ My guess is they have to stop fighting now and await the outcome of the one-on-one combat between Gaunt and their king.”
“What?” Gaunt looked up, concerned.
“Only Gaunt didn’t blow it,” Hadrian said. “It’s like it’s busted or something.”
So the horn isn’t getting us out of here?” Gaunt asked.
“No,” Arista said sadly. “No, it’s not.”
“Well, let’s see what a dwarf can do, then,” Magnus said, and taking out his hammer, began examining the walls, tapping here and there, placing his ear to them, even licking the stone. He circled Novron’s tomb and then moved out into the larger crypt of kings. The rest of them wandered around, looking at the contents of the tomb, while Hadrian looked through the packs.
“There’s probably thousands of pounds of gold here,” Gaunt said, picking up a vase and staring at it miserably, as if it were mocking him by its mere existence. “What good is it?”
“I’d trade it all for a nice plate of Ella’s apple pie right now,” Mauvin said. “I wouldn’t even mind her stew-and I never really liked her stew.”
“I never had her stew, but I remember her pie,” Myron said. He was crouched against the wall, still studying the horn. “It was very nice.”
They all listened quietly for a time to the tapping of the dwarf’s hammer in the other room. Its faint tink! jarred Arista’s nerves.
“I pretended to be Ella when I worked at the palace,” Arista said. “But I just scrubbed floors. I didn’t cook. She did make great apple pie. Did she-”
Mauvin shook his head. “She was killed during the flight.”
“Oh.” Arista nodded.
“What do you think this is?” Gaunt asked, holding up a statuette that looked to be a cross between a bull and a raven.
Arista shrugged. “Pretty, though.”
“How much?” Mauvin asked as Hadrian sat down on the wheel of the chariot.
“Three days,” he said, “if we conserve.”
The sound of the dwarf’s hammer stopped and Magnus returned. His long face said everything. He entered and sat on a pile of gold coins, which jingled gaily. “There are worse places to be buried, I suppose.”
“Alric,” Arista said suddenly. “I suppose we should put him to rest properly, then.”
“He’ll be well buried,” Myron told her. “And in a king’s tomb.”
She nodded, trying to appear comforted.
“Royce and I will get him,” Hadrian said.
“I think I should be one of his pallbearers as well,” Mauvin said, and followed them out.
They returned with his body and gently laid it on a golden table. Arista draped a blanket over him, and they gathered around it in a circle.
“Dear Maribor, our eternal father,” Myron began, “we are gathered here to say farewell to our brother Alric Essendon. We ask that you remember him and see him across the river to the land of the dawn.” He looked to Arista, whose eyes were already tearing again.
“Alric was my broth-” She stopped short as tears overtook her. Hadrian put his arm around her shoulders.
“Alric was my best friend,” Mauvin continued. “My third brother, I always said. He was my rival for women, my fellow conspirator in plans of adventure, my prince, and my king. He was crowned before his time, but we did not know then how little time he had left. He ruled in an era of terror and he ruled well. He showed valor and courage befitting a king right to the end.” He paused and looked down at the blanketed form and laid a hand on Alric’s chest. “The crown is off now, Alric. You are free of it at last.” Mauvin wiped the tears from his face.
“Does anyone else-” Myron began when Gaunt stepped forward, and all eyes turned cautiously toward him.
“I just wanted to say”-he paused a moment-“I was wrong about you.” He hesitated for several seconds, as if he might say more, and then glanced awkwardly at the others before stepping back. “That’s all.”
Myron looked to Arista again.
“He’s fine,” she said simply while nodding. “At least I know that.”
“And so, Lord,” Myron continued with a bowed head, “we say farewell to our king, our brother, and our good friend. May the light of a new dawn rise upon his soul.”
Myron then began the song of final blessing, and all of them, even Magnus, joined in. Unto Maribor, I beseech thee Into the hands of god, I send thee Grant him peace, I beg thee Give him rest, I ask thee May the god of men watch over your journey.
Mauvin stepped out of the tomb into the crypt and returned with a dusty crown, which he lay upon Alric’s chest. “Sometimes the price of dreams is achieving them.”
Arista could not stay any longer. She felt like she was suffocating and walked out into the crypt. Entering one of the alcoves, she crouched down and hid behind one of the sarcophagi. She sat with her back in the crux of the corner. Her knees were up, and once settled, she let herself cry. She shook so hard that her back bounced against the wall. Tears ran down her face. She let them run unabated, dripping onto the robe, which dimmed until it went out.
She wanted to believe that when Gaunt blew the horn it had stopped the elves, that perhaps they had heard and were coming to dig them out, but it felt like a lie. She was deluding herself because there was nothing else to hope for, nothing to expect beyond despair. In the darkness, she laid her head down on her arms and cried until she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 23
THE SKY SWIRLS
The booming thunder continued shaking the walls and the floors beneath their feet as the metalsmith hammered the last rivet into the helm. The old man’s face was etched with deep lines partially hidden behind a mass of gray bristles, a beard he had no time to shave away. “There you are, lad. As fine a helm as you’ll find. It will take care of you. Protect that noggin of yours right well. War is upon us, my boy, but don’t worry-that’s only thunder yer hearing.”
Percepliquis trr-6 Page 37
