With that, Oswald withdrew into the anteroom. Quentin heard the hollow echo of his summons to the warder. The queen turned to Quentin and said, “It is time to go. Follow the warder and he will lead you to the postern gate. The horses are waiting there with our provisions. We will come along as soon as may be. Go quickly now.”
Quentin followed the warder, a short, thick bull of a man with black eyes and curly black hair. He looked every inch the soldier he had once been. Quentin bobbed along in the man’s wake as they made their way along the back ways and little-used passages of the castle.
They walked quickly, stopping to look neither right nor left, although Quentin’s eyes caught flashing glimpses of rooms opulent and luxurious beyond his simple imaginings. He ached to be able to just stand and gaze upon them from the corridors. They passed various apartments, the armory, anterooms, and chambers. At one point they passed a great open entranceway with two huge carved oaken doors thrown wide in welcome. Inside a double colonnade supported an immense vaulted ceiling of concentric arches above a vast open room that seemed to contain the treasures of a whole kingdom. Quentin had never seen anything like it; the room seemed large enough to have swallowed the Temple of Ariel whole. Trenn, the warder, saw Quentin’s eyes grow round as they passed the room and explained, “That is the Great Hall of the Dragon King. There is none like it in all the world.”
Quentin believed him.
No sooner had the warder spoken than he turned like lightning upon Quentin and seized him by the tunic at the back of the neck. Quentin was surprised and shocked. He jerked like a loosely strung puppet and struck out with arms and legs flailing. “Come along, ruffian, or I’ll feed you to the dogs!” the warder roared.
“Do you require assistance, Trenn?” Quentin heard a voice behind him. He spun around and saw two men, richly dressed and proceeding into the great hall. One looked to be a knight by his armor, but he was no knight like Quentin had ever seen. His armor was silver and burnished to a glittering brightness; his cloak was crimson and lined with sable, as were his gloves and boots.
The man standing next to the knight wore a richly brocaded cloak of silk with gold drawn into fine thread and woven into the fabric. His tunic was royal purple, and he wore a large golden collar from which hung his insignia: a vulture with two heads, one facing right and the other left.
Quentin guessed it was the knight who had spoken, though he had no way of knowing. “I can manage, my lord,” said Trenn, dipping his head curtly. “We caught this one in the larder, stuffing his pockets.”
“Well, give him a taste of your strap,” said the nobleman impatiently. Both men turned away, and Trenn yanked Quentin behind one of the great doors, clamping a hand over the boy’s mouth.
“Quiet, young master!” he whispered hoarsely. “We dare not be seen lurking hereabouts.” Then he removed his hand with an additional caution not to cry out.
“Who were they?” Quentin whispered. Trenn rolled his eyes upward.
“Orphe, help us! It was Prince Jaspin and one of his nobles, Sir Grenett—a more foul gentleman I never want to meet.”
“Then let us get away!” said Quentin, seeing no good reason to linger in the vicinity any longer.
“We cannot—any moment Oswald will walk into a trap unaware! We must do something to prevent it.”
The plan had been simple enough, but not without its element of risk. The chamberlain, Oswald, was to impersonate Prince Jaspin after secretly obtaining some of the prince’s clothing. A forged message was delivered to the dungeon keeper to place the new prisoner under guard and bring him to the Great Hall, which was the only place the conspirators could think of where Jaspin himself would not likely show up. But their worst fears had, as on such occasions frequently happens, materialized in force.
Prince Jaspin and one of his noble knaves had chosen this time for a private parley in the Great Hall, where Oswald, in disguise, would momentarily appear. Only the doughty Trenn and Quentin knew of the serious mischance. “I fear the gods go against us, young master. Yonder comes Oswald, and too soon the prisoner will follow.” Footsteps could be heard far down the corridor; Oswald was hurrying to his place. “There is but one thing for it,” said Trenn. “A diversion.”
He peered around the huge door and pointed diagonally across the hall to the darkened arch of an alcove. “You see that door over there?” he asked. “That is the storeroom of tables, benches, and all that fills the hall on feast days. And also a quantity of banners and pennons and other such frippery—set them afire!” He thrust into Quentin’s uncertain hands a small flint and iron attached with a leather thong, which he carried in a pouch at his side. “I will be right after you, yelling to catch their attention. Mind, when you hear me call, leave all and come out. We will not have much time, but maybe enough.”
“I understand.”
“Then go.” Trenn pushed Quentin forward with such force that the boy fell sprawling into the entrance of the Great Hall, dropping the flint and iron, which clinked dully as it skittered across the black marble floor not five paces from where Prince Jaspin and Sir Grenett had stopped to confer.
Quentin leaped to his feet and dived to snatch up the flint and iron. Trenn, behind him, shouted, “Stop him! Stop that thief!” Prince Jaspin and Sir Grenett turned just in time to see Quentin dash toward them, swoop to retrieve his lost utensil, and dart away. Sir Grenett, without thinking, made a swipe after the fleeing youth, but Prince Jaspin, considering this an ill-timed interruption in his important affairs, stood fuming in his place.
Quentin reached the door of the storeroom and smacked the iron latch with his hand. The door was secured from within. No, it gave somewhat, but Sir Grenett was upon him. Putting all his weight upon the effort, Quentin managed to force the latch and barely swung the door open, squeezing through and closing it again in almost the same motion. Sir Grenett’s heavy fist rattled the door as he threw the bolt.
The room was almost pitch dark; only a feeble light found its way in from an arrow loop set high up in the wall. With Trenn’s excited voice and Sir Grenett’s angry challenges and both men pounding upon the door, Quentin stumbled forward and found in a corner of the room banners on standards. He threw them down and set to striking the flint and iron.
The effort appeared futile; there was no edge or kindling that could catch a spark. Furiously he looked for something else to start a blaze. On the floor he spied a single piece of parchment, a proclamation of some sort that had been read at a feast now forgotten. He picked it up and ran back to the door, crumpling the parchment as he went. He threw it down just in front of the door and struck the flint and iron to it. The spark caught on the brittle old skin. He blew carefully, and the spark leaped to flaming life. Trembling, Quentin shoved the smoldering parchment to the threshold and blew his breath on it, sending the smoke streaming under the door.
“Fire!” he heard Trenn’s voice boom out. “The rascal’s set the stores on fire!”
Prince Jaspin, growing more and more impatient with the impertinence of the supposed young scoundrel, came steaming up to where Sir Grenett and Trenn stood beating the door with their hands. “Call the guards! I’ll have this door down at once!”
“The room will be in blazes before that,” Trenn objected. “My lord, allow me to remain here while Sir Grenett goes round to the other door through that anteroom.”
“The room has two such entrances, I believe,” explained the exasperated prince, quickly losing his temper.
“My lord could see to the other,” suggested Trenn.
The prince seemed about to overrule this plan, but the smoke was now curling about their feet. “By Azrael! I’ll flay his foolish hide myself,” he swore, trotting off to find the other door, a location he knew but imprecisely. “Sir Grenett!” he shouted. “Take your post! Let us end this vexation instantly!”
The two left to their appointed stations. As soon as they were out of sight, Trenn called, his face close to the door, “Young master, they are gon
e. Let us away!”
Hearing the signal, Quentin emerged coughing from the room. The parchment was now but ashes on the floor, completely consumed. Trenn grabbed his arm, nearly wrenching it from his shoulder, and pulled him across the floor and away. At the entrance to the Great Hall, they met a confused Oswald fearfully peeping in at the scene he had just witnessed.
“Our plan is discovered,” he said as they drew up.
“No,” replied Trenn in a hushed tone. “But you must not linger here all night. We have bought some time. See to your business and flee!”
Oswald appeared far from certain, but the noise or voices in the corridor behind, and a quick glance to see the dungeon keeper and his guards with their prisoner moving toward them, made up his mind. The chamberlain crossed to one side of the hall and took up his position, back turned toward the entrance.
Trenn and Quentin did not remain longer to see the drama to its end but hurried on toward their appointed place—the postern gate.
Quentin felt the sting of the cold night air upon his face as they dashed out of the castle and into the broad expanse of the outer ward. Trenn and Quentin flitted like shadows over the snow and, stealing through a low stone archway set in a low wall, entered the small postern gateyard. There in the whitened square of the gateyard stood three horses laden with provisions. Standing nearby was a member of Trenn’s gate watch who was checking saddle and tack for readiness.
“Everything is in order, sir,” the guard reported when the two came close.
“Good,” said Trenn. “Go and see that the plank is let down. The others will be here shortly.”
The man turned and hastened off. Trenn cast a worried glance back over his shoulder toward the castle and said softly to Quentin, “We have pushed our luck this far; the gods will have to see to the rest.” He paused and added in a hoarse whisper, “But listen! Someone comes!”
10
Quentin shivered in the cold. A large bright moon was beginning to show its silvery disk just above the eastern curtain between two towers. Quentin watched in nervous excitement, waiting to be off. He stood in the snow, holding the reins of his mount, none other than the stout Balder, rescued by the queen’s thoughtfulness from the stable at the inn. The ambushers, having captured their man, had given no thought to the horses left behind.
The queen stood nearby, talking quietly to Trenn, who was maintaining a thickheaded obstinance over something she was telling him. “Good warder,” she said, “I would not insist if I thought you were in but little danger. The prince rages from within, demanding an accounting. He thinks you have conspired some treason against him and likes not the trickery played out in the Great Hall just now. When he learns of the prisoner’s escape, he will demand your head.”
“How can he know that I had aught to do with his precious prisoner?” Trenn objected.
“He needs no reason to suspect anyone, who is suspicious of all. Jaspin will suspect and then, at very least, make an example of your death for those who trifle with him. It is not safe for you to remain behind.”
“I have borne the brunt of his anger before. I can withstand.”
“No, not this time. He will be satisfied with nothing less than your head upon the spike. You must come with us.”
Just then two figures darted forth from the low archway: the leading one tall and dark; the other, his cloak glimmering in the moonlight, following close behind.
“Theido!” cried Quentin when the two had joined them.
“Quentin, is it you?” the dark man asked in some surprise.
“Quickly now,” said Trenn. “Truly, there is not a moment to lose. You must be off.”
“Trenn, you are coming with us,” the queen said firmly and called to one of the guards standing close by. “Make ready another horse!”
“There’s no time, my lady,” the bullheaded warder protested. “I may be of more use to you here. Go now and do not worry after me.”
“Yes, you must go at once,” said Oswald. “The dungeon keeper will send for his prisoner soon and find him gone; then Jaspin will know that treason is afoot.”
Quentin was already in the saddle of the great warhorse. Balder snorted and shook his mane. The bridle jingled in the frosty air, reminding Quentin of tiny prayer bells heard from far away. Theido mounted his brown palfrey, and the horse tossed his head and stamped the ground repeatedly, as if to say, “The time has come! Away!” The queen climbed, with the help of Trenn’s steady hand, into the saddle, offering last instructions to Oswald.
“Jaspin must have no reason to suspect my absence for at least two days. Play out the ruse as long as you are able. Let everyone believe I have taken to bed with a sudden slight illness and will not be disturbed. My ladies must behave as they would under that condition. And you must forget you know otherwise yourself.”
Oswald bowed, and Trenn signaled one of his men to lift the postern gate, and the riders set forth. The hooves of the horses clattered upon the stone floor of the gatehouse road and thudded over the plank, the small drawbridge that had been put down over the broad ditch sep- arating the postern ramp from the gatehouse. They wound their way along the walled road of the postern ramp, which descended steeply down the rocky backside of the hill on which the castle was founded. When they had clattered over the final bridge, spanning the last dry moat, Theido turned in his saddle and halted briefly, allowing the others to draw up beside him. “Whoever else I have to thank for my freedom, I thank my friend Quentin,” he said, bowing in the saddle. He turned to Queen Alinea and said, “And I thank his influential friend.”
“We all have you to thank for our captivity if we do not leave this place at once,” she said with a laugh. Then she added in a more serious tone, “Good Theido, I am sorry for the abuse which has befallen you, but the gods may yet have some plan to undo all the evil Prince Jaspin has done. For my own part, I am glad that you are still alive and are now by my side. There is not another I would entrust my safety to more willingly.”
“My lady, we have not seen the beginning of our course. It may be that you will have reason to curse the one you so highly honor now.”
“No. I have too often seen your high mettle tested and shown true. I have no qualms whatever danger lurks at hand.”
“Still, it is not too late for you to go back. You—”
The queen cut him off, saying, “I have made my decision and will abide.” She took a deep breath and turned her face to the east. “No, my future lies elsewhere. My king is waiting.”
Theido snapped his reins. “Then we are off!”
The horses surged into the snow, striking up glittering diamonds in the silvery light. The shadows of the three riders wavered, sliding silently in the smooth void—three fleeting shades darting through a sleeping world. Away they flew to the east toward the darkly advancing line of Pelgrin Forest, their black shapes traced in the spun silver of a rising winter moon.
Quentin crouched low, clinging to Balder’s thick neck, abandoning any hope of remaining close behind the others unless he gave his mount free rein. He was not an accomplished rider—the temple had little use for horses. That part of his education had been neglected in favor of other, more priestly studies. So he leaned into the wind, lashed by Balder’s flying mane, squinting into the night and blinking back icy tears and enduring the string of snow loosed by the hooves of the horses in front of him.
The moon hovered at its zenith when they reached the first straggling forefringe of the forest. Theido pursued the dodging course among the small trees and shrubs until at last the riders entered the deeper wood. Here, at the forest’s edge, Theido reined to a halt to allow the horses a breather. All turned in their saddles to look upon Askelon, now many leagues behind them.
Quentin craned his neck to see the castle, dimly outlined in the moonlight, rising like a mountain, dark against an even darker night. Overhead a thousand stars shed brilliant pricks of cold light glancing down upon them. Pale wisps of steam rose from the horses.
“We may be able to outdistance them or lose them along the way,” Alinea offered.
“It is possible; at any rate, it is our best course. Jaspin has many spies throughout the land and many who owe him costly favors. He will try to use them. If we can but elude them long enough, we may lose them when we leave this country behind.
“We shall ride as quietly through Pelgrin as a party may go with speed. There is, however, one stop I would make along the way, and that quite soon.” He swung his horse into the forest, and the others followed close behind.
Quentin found the going somewhat easier; he was able to sit more erectly in the saddle, although low-hanging branches kept him ducking and leaning constantly. Theido pursued a relentless pace for nearly two hours, as far as Quentin could guess by the position of the moon—which he struggled to glimpse from time to time through broken patches of clear sky overhead.
They stayed just off the main track through the forest and presently came to an ancient oak of immense girth, as large as any Quentin had ever seen. Theido called a halt and rode a few paces ahead by himself. Then he raised himself in the saddle and, placing two fingers of an ungloved hand into his mouth, gave a low whistle. He repeated it and then trotted back to where Quentin and Queen Alinea waited. He was just about to speak when a long, shrill whistle came in answer to his own.
“Come,” said Theido. “We may proceed.”
They turned off the path by the oak, and Quentin saw a narrow opening between two massive and impenetrable hedges. The gap was just wide enough to admit a rider or a man on foot—if they happened to be looking for the spot, for it was fully concealed behind the eldern oak.
The Dragon King Trilogy Page 7
