by Lee Duigon
“Chief,” asked a warrior, “why do you let these people go without a fight? Their scalps are ours for the taking!” Among the Abnaks, any grown man could question any chief, and they obeyed a chief’s commands only when they chose to. Foxblood led by consent.
“I let them go because we still have multitudes of enemy warriors in our country,” he said, “and we’d be fools to think we could kill them all. But every man we spare will tempt others to do as these Fazzan have done. Besides, it pleases God. Or have you forgotten Him already?”
They were ashamed to answer that.
Someone found a good-sized stump for Orth to stand on, and they rolled it into position. Foxblood beckoned the Fazzan to come closer. Orth remembered seeing wolf’s-head caps like theirs among King Ryons’ men in Lintum Forest. With Foxblood translating, Orth spoke to them.
“I will not keep you long, men of Fazzan. But know this: the sins of the Thunder King have come up before the living God, and God has pronounced judgment on him. He will not escape the judgment, and his works will not survive his fall.
“God, the God of all nations, will give you back your homeland and your liberty. Remember that! It is God who has preserved your lives today. This is God who created the heavens and the earth, and all that live. You have not known Him. But He knows you, and someday you will learn to know Him well. Go in peace, and be thankful for God’s gifts.”
The Fazzan were too amazed to venture any questions, but Foxblood asked, “How will they come to know God?”
“His word will come to all the nations of the East,” said Orth. As he said it, he understood that that was why he himself had come into the East.
So the Fazzan shouldered their weapons and marched away, eager to return to their homeland in the valley of the Green Snake River. And the Abnaks tore down their fort.
In a land emptied of inhabitants by the wars that swept across it, King Ryons’ army raised another cairn. No natives were on hand to see it.
A few of Looth’s scouts returned, after having come within sight of the first of the Great Lakes. Looth reported in person to the other chieftains.
“We’ll have fighting when we get there—maybe sooner,” he said. “There are some Zephites, with bulls’ horns on their heads, and a lot of very big men who carry clubs and swords. They are all gathered around a big stone house beside the water. So much water! You can barely see the farther shore. Men are crossing it on long boats.”
“Those big men will be Zamzu—King Thunder’s favorites,” Shaffur said. He made an ugly face. “Eaters of men! They won’t be satisfied with killing us.”
“It was a giant of the Zamzu who lost this sword after Helki felled him with his rod,” said Uduqu, tapping the weapon with his palm. Not a few men in the army had seen that fight and remembered Shogg the giant. “Well, I don’t think they’re all as big as he was.”
“My people are afraid of them,” said Tiliqua, the Griff.
“Not mine!” spoke up Xhama. “We have fought them before, in Lintum Forest, when we became King Ryons’ men. They are cruel and ruthless, like their master. But not one of them came back alive from that adventure.”
It was Helki who led the destruction of the Zamzu invading Lintum Forest. At the moment, everyone felt his absence keenly, but no one said so.
“We are almost there, then,” Gurun said, “for the castle of the Thunder King lies on the far shore of the farthest lake.” And Ryons shuddered, because one of the Thunder King’s chiefs once told him that King Thunder wished to capture him alive, put out his eyes, and keep him in a dungeon for the rest of his life. They were marching straight for that dungeon now.
He was ashamed to be afraid. How many times had he been told that God was with him? But it wasn’t always easy to believe it.
Ryons slept a deep sleep that night, and so did all his men, except the sentries. They had come a long way and they were tired, and the night over that empty land was very still. Cavall slept next to him, with one of Ryons’ hands nestled in his fur.
A voice speaking in a whisper woke the king.
“Ryons, King Ryons—awake.”
When he opened his eyes he saw a man sitting beside him, an old man with a long white beard, wearing a farmer’s work-stained clothes. Ryons’ heart leaped because he’d seen the man before. Cavall picked up his head and whined softly, but the man patted him once, and he lowered his head and was quiet. He wagged his tail because he, too, had met the man before.
“I told you we would meet again, King Ryons. Indeed, I have been with you all the way from Lintum Forest.”
“You’re the servant of the Lord,” Ryons answered, still lying on his back. “But who are you, sir? You’ve never told me your name.”
“I’m only one of the Lord’s messengers. You would have a very hard time trying to pronounce my name!” The old man smiled. “It is my charge to speak to you and give you courage: for the Lord knows you’re afraid.
“Fear not! You are as a man traversing a fragile bridge, one step at a time. But wherever your foot touches the bridge, the Lord strengthens it to bear your weight. All the way to Kara Karram you’ll go, because the Lord is with you. His eyes shall delight in you, and His right hand shall uphold you.”
Ryons felt like springing to his feet and dancing a jig, but he could only lie still.
“Do you see those stars, O King? Behold!”
As hard as it was not to keep looking at the bearded face that had such love and comfort in it, Ryons shifted his gaze to the stars. They shone in such a multitude that the very number of them impressed his heart with fear—not a fear of something bad, but a fear of such grandeur and goodness that it defied his mind to take it in.
Then one of the stars fell. For the briefest of all moments it streaked across the sky, as a slash of flame against the dark.
“That was the star of the Thunder King,” said the man of God, “and it has fallen. As the Lord has upheld you, so shall the Lord cast him down, never to be seen again.”
“But what must I do?” Ryons wanted to cry out, but could only manage a whisper.
The old man smiled at him and answered, “Get some sleep!” And Ryons closed his eyes and slept till morning.
The first thing he saw was Gurun’s face framed by a blue sky. She knelt over him.
“I saw him!” she whispered. “He turned and looked at me and smiled, and then he was gone. But what did he say to you?”
“That we’re going to go to Kara Karram,” Ryons answered, “all the way to the castle. And when we get there, it’ll be the end of the Thunder King. His star fell last night.”
“I saw it,” Gurun said. “Ryons, it has been a long time since anyone has seen such things as we have seen! The Lord has sent His messenger to speak to you—and I have seen him. It’s like the Scriptures are not just stories in a book anymore, but are coming to life all around us. And we are in the stories!”
That thought frightened Ryons, although he could not have said why. He didn’t have to say as much to Gurun; she read it in his face.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m frightened, too.”
CHAPTER 27
A Predator Strikes
Lord Chutt drove his army hard, eating up the miles beneath their horse’s hooves. No one who knew him would have thought him capable of it—unless they also knew that rumor of the Thunder King’s gold had reached his ears.
As a member of the High Council of the Oligarchy, Chutt had been in charge of revenues. “He’s a natural for it,” the governor-general, Lord Ruffin, used to say. “He can squeeze taxes from a stone.” That some of Obann’s revenues stuck to Chutt’s fingers was an open secret in the city. Had it become any more open, Ruffin would have called for his removal from the council. But the Thunder King’s invasion put a stop to that line of thinking.
Chutt fled the city just before it was encircled by the Heathen and was the only one of the High Council not to die in its defense. As he had established himself in the north, he’d lost wei
ght: his colleagues might not have recognized him, if they could see him now. He had thinned down to a short, sturdy figure of a man, with sharp, sly features and a brown beard shot with grey. His stamina and his horsemanship had improved to the point where he could ride all day, and he’d grown accustomed to rough fare. And the thing that drove him now was the thought of all that gold at the top of the Golden Pass, with only Roshay Bault and a few hundred militiamen to guard it.
He had some thousands of Wallekki and other riders and had promised their captains shares of the gold. “Stick with me,” he said, “and you’ll all be big men in a new Obann.” And they believed him. To the thousand Obannese who followed him, he said, “It’ll be like the old days, only better. Those of you who don’t wind up as oligarchs or generals will at least be rich—richer than you ever dreamed!” They believed him, too.
Hennen remained in Market City, chained to a post in a cellar. Why Chutt hadn’t had him killed, he couldn’t imagine. But his officers had not forgotten him, and neither had Gallgoid.
“Now that Chutt has galloped off into the east, we might send a force to Market City to rescue Baron Hennen,” the spy said to Captain Joah. “There’ll be no one there to stop you.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Joah said. “Chutt’s left no one minding the store in Market City, my scouts tell me. It doesn’t look like he plans on coming back. What do you suppose he’s up to?”
By now Gallgoid thought he knew: it could only be the gold. Chutt had worked hard to set up his little fiefdom in the north. He would only leave it for something that lured him irresistibly. People in Obann City were whispering about the gold of the Golden Pass. How they’d ever gotten wind of it, even Gallgoid couldn’t say. But to Joah he only said, “I don’t know what Chutt’s plans are.” If the troops caught gold fever, there might not be any left to defend the city.
Obann was quiet now. Jod gave public readings from the Scriptures, old and new, and no one seemed to be worried by the First Prester’s absence. Constan carried on the work of translating, copying, and distributing the sacred books. Most of the farms around Obann were functioning again; most of the refugees had returned to their villages to rebuild; and most of the stragglers from King Thunder’s host had either taken service with King Ryons, starved, or been hunted down by the militia. The river was alive with fish, prices had come down, and there were no shortages worth complaining about. Life in Obann these days was calm and peaceful.
“That’s the time to keep the sharpest watch for trouble,” Gallgoid thought.
Ysbott couldn’t get back into the baron’s camp with the guard doubled. So that night he led his band in wailing and babbling—but not for long, in case armed men came out to investigate.
The noise unnerved the camp, but Jack laughed at it.
“Anyone can tell it’s only someone trying to scare us,” he said. Ellayne and Fnaa joined him in making fun of it.
“I used to make noises like that when I wanted people to think I was loopy,” Fnaa said. “But I was better at it. Listen!” And he cut loose with an ululation that would have terrified the men, if they hadn’t seen a boy producing it.
“I can do better!” Ellayne said, and let out a piercing shriek that would have caused an avalanche, were the mountains under their winter coat of snow.
Roshay Bault started toward them with fire in his eyes. But when he heard some of his frightened men begin to laugh, he changed his mind.
“There’s your ghosts, you pack of softies!” he roared. “A couple of kids playing a game! Now you can be properly ashamed of yourselves.”
Jack plucked a blade of grass, stretched it between his thumbs, and blew. It made a sound like a bird being pulled apart by its wings. Ellayne, having never mastered that trick, ignored it. But the men who saw him do it had a good laugh. And a mile away, in the dark beneath the trees, Hrapp the cobbler looked wide-eyed at Ysbott and stammered, “What in the world was that! It’s horrible!” All of Ysbott’s men froze at the sound. “It’s only a cuss’t bird,” was the only answer he could give them.
“Oh, that’s loud!” someone said. “I’ll bet they could hear it all the way back home!”
“I’d rather not hear it again,” Roshay said. “My father gave me a good thumping once, for doing that while he was trying to balance his books.” He raised his voice. “But I hope you all can see now that what you were so afraid of was nothing!”
“We’ve got a dead man to show for it, though, don’t we?” someone muttered.
“A dead man who was murdered in the night by human hands,” Roshay answered. “It won’t happen again.”
A mile off, Ysbott struggled with his men’s failing courage and realized he would have to change his plans again.
In the morning Roshay announced his decision to send half his troops back down the mountain to bring up carts. But first he consulted privately with Martis.
“There is a killer waiting for a chance to kill again,” Roshay said. “He won’t get that chance, but I’d dearly love to see him caught. He may have interesting things to tell us before he’s hanged. I was hoping you would hunt him down for me.”
“I’m not much of a tracker in this kind of terrain,” Martis said.
“Well, what about that Abnak—Trout?”
“He could do it easily, if his ankle were better.”
“Maybe he can do it in spite of his ankle,” said the baron. “Let’s ask him.”
Trout said his ankle wasn’t so bad, now that he’d had some rest. “I can hobble around and look for signs,” he said, “but I won’t be able to catch anyone who runs away. I wouldn’t be at my best if it came to fighting, either.”
“Maybe you and Martis together, with whatever help you need from my men, could catch these fellows,” Roshay said.
“It’s worth trying,” Trout said.
“I’m going to send the children back to Ninneburky,” said the baron. “They’ll have a safe trip with Sergeant Kadmel to watch over them.”
“I’ve sworn an oath to protect them,” Martis said.
“But I need you here, Martis—for a little while, at least. They’re my children, after all, and they ought to be all right with two hundred armed men around them.”
With some misgivings, Martis agreed. He didn’t like to be separated from the children, but he trusted the baron’s judgment.
Wytt hadn’t yet ventured into the baron’s camp, not even to cuddle with Ellayne as she slept. Hundreds of big, clumsy, noisy human beings: he’d rather have no part of them.
He spent hours watching Ysbott and his men. They were hungry and uncomfortable. But up in the trees, unperceived by their dull senses, an even hungrier animal was watching them—a hunter hoping for a chance to make a meal.
Wytt saw it. A human might have thought it was a giant-sized tree marten, almost as big as a grown man, but Wytt knew better. It was no marten, nor any other kind of beast he knew. It had great, sharp claws on its thumbs—whatever it seized with those claws would never get away. Wytt caught a glimpse of huge front teeth that would punch through the thickest skull, with bulging jaw muscles to back them up. The creature was black all over, black as night, except for a pair of sharp green eyes. Wytt guessed it must ordinarily be a night-time predator, drawn out into the daylight by hunger. Wytt heard its belly rumbling: it must not be satisfied, feeding on birds and rodents. It needed bigger game to fill its belly—and the only large game available was Ysbott and his men. The animal had been stalking them all day, and Wytt thought the beast might be hungry enough to act rashly.
The men slept during the day as best they could, too tired and worn-out to post sentries. One of them, a little space apart from the others, had fallen asleep sitting up against a tree, with a piece of dried beef in his hand.
Wytt crept up close, tugged at the meat. He could have easily whisked it out of the man’s grasp and run away, but instead he kept on tugging at it, sharply, until he woke the man. Only then did Wytt snatch the meat fro
m his hand. He stared into the man’s astonished eyes and made a face, showing his teeth.
“Slowpoke! Son of a slug!” He chattered softly, so as not to wake the others. As a final provocation, he sank his teeth into the unappealing man-food and tore off a piece. “I am mighty!” he scolded. “I take your meat!”
With a curse, the man grabbed for him—and missed. Wytt danced backward, brandishing the stiff piece of meat, taunting him. The man lunged and missed again. He got on his knees and scrambled to his feet.
“You give that back, you thieving little skrayling!” The poor fellow was so upset by the loss of his ration that he forgot to be afraid of Wytt. The others were waking up, but now it didn’t matter. Wytt made some rude noises and the man came after him, stumbling through the underbrush.
