by Lee Duigon
The chiefs in all their warlike finery sat silent, their eyes fixed on the speaker. But then Jandra suddenly perceived that they weren’t looking at him, but at her. And that was all she knew until she woke again in Abgayle’s arms, not his.
Lord Orth was like a man who’d been stabbed, Ryons thought. When God’s words came out of Jandra’s mouth, Orth’s face went all pale and stony. When Jandra stopped speaking, and Abgayle came and took her, Gurun helped the First Prester to a vacant stool such as the chieftains used. He almost fell off it when he sat.
“Thank you,” he gasped.
“It is hard to hear that voice come from such a little girl,” Gurun said. “It doesn’t happen so often that one gets used to it.”
Ryons thought it was happening a bit more often, lately. The army was preparing to move, the chiefs only waiting for Helki to advise them what route to take. They expected God to advise them, too, through Jandra. God had done that before. But Ryons had never seen anyone quite so shaken up as Orth was.
“It is my sins coming back to accuse me, my lords,” Orth said, after taking a deep breath. “When I was an ambitious man, I persecuted the prophets. God sent them to give our city warning, but I spoke against them. When we hanged them, I consented to their deaths. I did it out of ignorance. I was blind; I did not see. But the Lord has opened my eyes and has forgiven me. How He was able to do that, I don’t understand. But when I remember what I did, my shame is almost too great to bear.”
No one answered him. Ryons was glad he had no such things on his own conscience; he hoped he never would. The man was in great pain, a kind of pain the boy had never known existed.
“And now,” said Orth, “that God should speak to me, through this innocent and lovely child, face-to-face!” He sighed and shook his head.
And what was it that Jandra had said?
“You are the last of the old presters, my son, and the first of the new; and you shall bear a burden for me, too heavy for your strength. But I will lend you strength, and you shall be a bridge; and my people shall cross over you from one age of the world into the next.”
What that might mean, Ryons couldn’t imagine. Maybe Obst could. There was pity in his face as he looked down at Orth seated on a stool, sweating on a cool spring day under the shade of the trees. But it was Gurun who stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and covered her hand with his own.
“Be comforted, my lord,” she said. “The Scripture says that there is no man righteous: no, not one. But there is a seed of righteousness that God Himself has planted in us, that grows toward God’s own righteousness. Did not Ozias say so, in the Sacred Songs?” Orth nodded, but did not speak. “My lords,” said Obst, “we are all part of the great bridge God is building. For now, a bridge across the mountains, into Heathen lands. You were all Heathen once, warlords. But God has accepted you as a new people who belong to Him.”
The chiefs muttered their assent. They had all seen God win battles for them.
“It’s a miracle that any of us is still alive,” Chief Zekelesh said, “the kind of scrapes we’ve been in.”
Orth wanted to stand back up, and Gurun helped him.
“To meet you, and to hear you speak, has been a blessing to me, my lords,” he said. “I’ll remember it as I travel on to Ninneburky, and from there to the mountains. You’ll all be in my prayers from now on.” He turned to Ryons and bowed. “And you especially, my king. May your reign be long and glorious.”
Because it seemed the right thing to do, Ryons stood up and doffed his black-feathered Wallekki headdress.
“Thank you, First Prester,” he said. It was in his mind that he was in the presence of a great man deserving of honor and respect. “May your reign be long and glorious, too.” He truly didn’t know what else to say, but that seemed sufficient.
It reached the ears of Ysbott that the First Prester was coming to Ninneburky.
“If only I had a way to get this news to the Thunder King!” he said in front of his men. But they were no help. He did all their thinking for them; otherwise, they would not survive.
Ysbott made it his business to know what was happening in Ninneburky. He had two or three persons in the town who kept him informed and whom he paid with stolen money. These relayed news to a few farmers, shepherds, and river-folk outside, whom Ysbott repaid by not stealing anything from them. He’d never had to do this when he lived in Lintum Forest, but nowadays he found it necessary. He had to know, at least, in which direction the baron’s mounted patrols were headed.
Someday, he was sure, the baron’s daughter would come out again, and he would pay her back for using witchcraft on him and almost blinding him. No demand for ransom this time—he’d sell her into slavery and let her father know it.
He would have been interested to learn that Ellayne was getting itchy feet again, despite her eagerness to learn all she could about her father’s business.
“I’d love to see Lintum Forest again,” she confided to Jack, “and King Ryons and Helki, and Obst and Fnaa. I wonder what they’re all doing.”
“Don’t you want to stay and see the First Prester when he comes?” Jack said. “He’ll be here soon.”
“He’d want to see us, that’s for sure—if he knew we were the ones who rang King Ozias’ bell and found the Lost Scrolls in the ruined Temple. Do you think anyone has told him? It’s something he ought to know.”
“You make me nervous when you talk like that,” Jack said. They were in the space between the back of the stables and the hedge, practicing throwing Jack’s penknife so it would stick in the ground. “We can’t go around telling people about those things! How many times does Martis have to tell you that?”
Ellayne sighed. “It’s hard to believe there’s nothing more for us to do,” she said. “And we’re only kids.”
“There’ll be plenty for us to do when we grow up. The war’s not over yet. The Thunder King will come again, or at least his armies will.”
While the children were away on adventures, an army of Zephites once came to Ninneburky. Roshay Bault led a desperate defense of the town, and finally God drove off the Zephites with a storm of ice and snow. It had taken a long time to bury the dead bodies, people said. Even now you could still find bits of weaponry, and bulls’ horns broken off the Zephite headgear, scattered around outside the palisade. Jack was thinking it would be good if such a thing never happened again, but was afraid it might.
“Wytt thinks something big is going to happen soon,” said Ellayne, “and I’m beginning to think so, too. It’s been quiet for too long.”
“You read too much Abombalbap,” Jack said. But he knew that all the quiet was too good to last.
CHAPTER 7
Who Will Go, and Who Will Stay
When he was the leader of an outlaw band in Lintum Forest, Ysbott the Snake robbed and murdered whom he pleased without fear of retribution. It was an easy life.
Now, with mounted patrols on the lookout for him and much more open, settled country around him than he liked, it forced him to do more—and better—thinking than he’d ever had to do before. His talent for crime began to blossom as it never would have done without such challenges.
One morning he shaved off his beard, cropped his long and stringy hair and darkened it—and his moustache and his eyebrows—with charcoal. He wrapped a bandana around his head, as a man might do for protection from the sun, which concealed the scar upon his cheek, and donned a hat with a broad and floppy brim.
“Waha!” said one of his men, a Wallekki straggler. “Your own mother wouldn’t know you, master! But why do you do so?”
“I’m going to spend some days in Ninneburky,” Ysbott said. “I want to get a good look at the First Prester when he comes and see for myself what’s what.”
“But it’s the baron’s own town!” another man objected. “Isn’t it too dangerous to go there?”
“Right in the middle of Ninneburky is the last place they’d ever look for me. I
’ll stay with our friend, Hrapp the cobbler. He’ll keep me safe—for a little money and a promise not to cut his throat.”
“But what’ll we do, chief, while you’re gone?”
“Lie low,” Ysbott said, “and don’t get up to any mischief. Do nothing! Is that clear?”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing until I return.” Ysbott didn’t trust this bunch not to get themselves captured and hanged the moment his back was turned. They’d be small loss to him, but it would be a bother to recruit another gang.
Nor could he trust any man of them to come with him to Ninneburky, with or without a disguise. Whomever he picked, the fool would be bound to get drunk one night and say or do something that would get them both arrested.
He packed his bag with provisions, filled his waterskin, took up his walking-staff, and set out for Ninneburky, a full day’s march from their camp in a wooded tract beside the river. His men looked wistful as they stood to see him off.
“Remember!” he said. “Do nothing till I’m back.”
“Can we do a bit of fishing, boss?”
Ysbott glared at them, then turned and walked away.
Helki’s three scouts returned to Carbonek with his advice to march to the Golden Pass, and that as soon as possible. The chieftains met to consider it.
“It’s the long way around,” said Shaffur. “I don’t like giving the enemy that much time to prepare for us.”
“But Helki’s counsel has always been good counsel,” said Tughrul Lomak of the Dahai. “We can cross the river at Ninneburky and go on from there—an easy journey.”
“First we have to decide who goes with us and who stays here,” Chagadai said. “Shall our father the king go?”
“Let the king decide for himself,” said Shaffur.
“Why is it always me?” thought Ryons. But the answer to that was always, “Well, you are the king, aren’t you?”
“I go where my army goes,” he said; and that was the answer they wanted to hear.
“When you’re a man, Your Majesty, your army will go where you go,” Shaffur said.
It didn’t take them long to decide to follow Helki’s advice. It took them much longer to decide to leave two thousand men at Carbonek. They’d be needed, in case the Thunder King’s mardars launched another attack on Silvertown.
To the Golden Pass would go those who could travel fastest—the Wallekki and the Ghols on horseback, most of the fleet-footed Attakotts, the long-striding Griffs, and the Hosa regiment, some five hundred men. “We can march all day at a run,” said Hawk, the chief, “and still fight a battle at the end of it.” The Obannese, the Abnaks under Chief Buzzard, the Fazzan with Chief Zekelesh, and Tughrul’s kilted Dahai, would stay behind to defend Carbonek and do whatever unexpected things needed doing.
“This is hard for us to bear,” said Zekelesh. “Our wolf’s heads have been carried into every one of King Ryons’ battles and never turned aside. We want to be with him.”
“Never mind,” Tughrul said. “Something will come up that calls for fighting.”
Obst, of course, would have to go. The army wouldn’t move without its teacher. The chieftains wanted to leave Gurun behind, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
“I should have died,” she said, “when the storm caught my father’s skiff and hurled it over the sea—but I didn’t. The boat didn’t fall to pieces until it brought me all the way to Obann, and that was God’s will. My place is with King Ryons. My filgya told me so.”
Some of the chieftains nodded. They knew the story of Gurun and the storm and knew that the filgya was a messenger of God. Which is not to say they understood it, but they had learned to accept such things.
Jandra would have to stay behind. She was much too young to go. But old Uduqu wouldn’t stay with his fellow Abnaks, but demanded to go with the king.
“I took a shine to him when he was still a slave and he sassed me in my own tent,” Uduqu said. “I almost died where I stood, that time he charged the enemy single-handed and put them to flight—a scared little boy who had all he could do just to stay on the horse.” Chagadai the Ghol whistled through his teeth and shuddered. As the king’s bodyguard, he would never forget that awful moment. It was the horse’s fault, but Ryons got great glory from it.
Uduqu rose from his stool and flourished a great sword that took all the strength in both his hands. “Most of you were there the day I won this sword,” he said. “It once belonged to Shogg the giant, King Thunder’s champion, that Helki killed. I picked up this sword and cut two men in half with it, just like that. You saw me do it.
“This sword doesn’t want to rust in its sheath, and neither do I. We both belong to King Ryons, and we will fight for him again before I close my eyes for the last time.”
“Hoo! Hoo!” growled the Abnaks and smacked their palms against their thighs. This was the kind of talk they liked. But when they were quiet again, Obst said, “Maybe there will be more battles, maybe not. Whatever the case, we go east as the servants of God—you and I, Uduqu, and King Ryons, too. And every one of us.”
“You have my meaning, Teacher,” said Uduqu, as he sat back down.
It was decided that Fnaa should remain at Carbonek, too, in case any need arose for the king’s double to impersonate the king. He took it badly, and it fell to Obst to try to comfort him.
“It’s not fair!” Fnaa cried. “I want to ride with the army. You’re going, Obst, and you’re as old as the hills. If you can keep up, then so can I.”
“You don’t think I want to go, do you?” Obst answered. “All my life I’ve never wanted anything but to live here in peace, as a hermit. But I do the work that God has given me—as must we all.”
“But Gurun will be going, and she’s only a girl!”
Obst smiled. “If you can think of a way to stop her, I’d like to hear it. But think of Ryons,” he said. “He never wanted to be a king! I’d say he was more cheerful as a slave. But God has chosen him to be a king, and he obeys. You can be sure God had a good reason for bringing you forth as the very likeness of the king. Stay here and do whatever work He sets for you. Stay here and learn the Scriptures. I have a feeling that your work is far from over—very far.”
“And what about yours?” Fnaa said. “How much longer can you do it? They say it is a long way to that Golden Pass.”
Obst shrugged. “No one has to tell me that I’m old, my boy. I’ll just carry on for as long as I can, until the Lord releases me.”
Fnaa took a long, hard look at him.
“That might take a while longer than you think,” the boy said. “Did you know that a few of your hairs have turned black? I’m sure they were white in the winter, and now they’re black. I’ve only just noticed it.”
Obst couldn’t help reaching up to feel his beard, which of course told him nothing.
“That’s not a nice prank, Fnaa.”
“It’s not a prank. It’s the truth. Ask someone else about it; they’ll tell you. How old are you, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Obst said. He paused to think, but couldn’t find the answer. “I lost track of the years a long time ago.” He said no more. What could it mean for black hairs to be sprouting up among the white? It troubled his spirit.
“Maybe you’re getting younger instead of older,” said Fnaa.
“Hush! That’s foolishness!” said Obst. But he was afraid to ask anyone else about it.
CHAPTER 8
Dinner with Lord Orth
The whole town of Ninneburky, and other folk from miles around, turned out to see and hear the First Prester. There was no room for them all in Ninneburky’s little chamber house, nor in any one place inside the town. The baron had carpenters erect a platform just outside the gate, and everyone gathered around it.
Martis cautioned Jack and Ellayne—especially Ellayne. “Remember,” he said, “not a word about Bell Mountain! It wouldn’t be safe for you, and it wouldn’t be safe for the First Prester to hear it.”
M
artis would be the only man in town not to attend Lord Orth’s sermon. “He would just recognize me as Lord Reesh’s servant; he was deep in Reesh’s confidence. We don’t want him wondering what I’m doing here! I’ll stay out of sight until he moves on.”
“Why would it be unsafe for him to know about us?” Ellayne asked.
“Not all the serpents have been put out of the Temple,” Martis said.
Ninneburky’s own prester, Ashrof—Jack’s mother’s uncle and his last blood kin—had nearly been put out of the Temple for being old and useless. Now he stood beside Lord Orth on the platform to introduce him to the people. And the First Prester presented him with a new book of all the Scriptures to be read to all the people in the chamber house.
