The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  “‘That which was lost shall be gathered,’” Drakkor gloated, “and so I have come to claim what belongs to me. And I will not be denied.”

  The Oracle’s face twisted when Drakkor recited the words of the prophecy.

  Ashar felt the dark power of the man. The overpowering evil. Drakkor’s voice echoed from the walls of the temple as if his very presence sent tremors into the bedrock.

  “Your quest is vain!” the Oracle said. “Even if the stones were here, they can never be gathered in the hand of evil.”

  “And yet I hold one in my hand,” Drakkor scoffed.

  “To your destruction,” the Oracle warned. “You hold the Swayyus Stone, stolen from the temple in ancient times by the cult of she-dragon and desecrated by the sorceress of Dragonfell.”

  Drakkor blanched at the Oracle’s clear knowledge of things he couldn’t know.

  “It is a stone of visions, but in your hand it has become a stone of deception. You have perverted the power to penetrate the minds of other men to an evil purpose. The whiteness of the light is gone from it.”

  “It is blackened by the fire of she-dragon’s breath.”

  “Using the power of the stones of light for an evil purpose is a desecration of unfathomable consequence to the wicked who willfully commit such blasphemy.”

  The Oracle’s voice was strong, but his body quivered. “Return what you have stolen to the temple that it may be purified to righteousness again. I beg you to depart this holy place.”

  A breeze rippled through the shrouds of silk. A trio of bees buzzed about Drakkor’s face as if the sunken scar were the blossom of a noxious weed. He swatted them away.

  “The stones were touched by the finger of God as a symbol of His goodness. A remembrance of the great voyage.” He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. “They shall be gathered by the hand of righteousness. Only one with the blood of the Navigator may be consecrated to endless life by their power.”

  Only those with the blood of the Navigator? Ashar shuddered.

  “You weary me with your babbling. Take me to where you have hidden the stolen stones of fire,” Drakkor said.

  Their eyes locked in combat: a dark face of fury with a scar of purging against a bright face of faith with gossamer skin.

  The rustle of the silken shroud and buzzing of the bees were gone. Silence returned as the shadow of a cloud passed before the sun.

  “You shall never have them,” the Oracle said.

  Drakkor narrowed his eyes. His cape swirled in a red smear the color of blood as he turned and strode to where the Blessed Sages huddled with Master FarzAn. Drakkor grabbed the wounded sage by his hair and dragged him to his knees.

  The old sage looked up in a confusion of pain and fear. There was no time to pray.

  Drakkor drew his long sword from the scabbard on his back and, in a single sweep of the doubled-edge blade, cut FarzAn’s head from his body. It thumped to the stones and rolled away. The torso tumbled forward, and the stones of the temple were stained by blood.

  Ashar gasped for breath and choked at the bitter taste that filled his mouth. He swallowed to keep from retching. His heart hammered in his ears. The sages were paralyzed in shock and horror.

  Drakkor faced the terrified old men. He motioned for the Mankin to step forward. “You! Come here!”

  Another execution? Another murder in cold blood? Ashar was desperate to look away, but his neck would not move and his head would not turn.

  Master Kurgaan waddled forward, his face resolute. His eyes remained fixed on the sword in Drakkor’s hand. When he drew closer, Kurgaan closed his eyes, stopped breathing, and began to pray.

  “No, no, little man.” Drakkor laughed softly and stroked the Sage’s head as if petting a dog. “I lament that your imprudent Oracle has made this demonstration necessary.” He wiped the blade of the bloody sword across Krugaan’s shoulder, leaving a crimson stain on the Mankin’s woolen cassock. “I much prefer that the wisest among you join with me rather than die as a nameless martyr to a god who is naught.” He waited for the wind to carry his words away. “Your wisdom can keep you alive. Your secrets are valuable to me, and I have much to accomplish.” His words were gracious, but there was no mistaking the ultimatum: betray your faith and deny your God of gods or suffer an ignominious death.

  Drakkor returned the sword to its scabbard and walked to the Oracle. “Bring me the virgins,” he said to his men holding the girls behind the pillars. The terrified daughters of the temple were ushered forward. Celestine was among them, struggling to keep the brigand’s groping hands from her body.

  A spike of fury slammed into Ashar’s heart.

  Drakkor looked west and shielded his eyes against the sunlight as if none of the chaos was taking place. He turned as the girls were pushed into a ragged row before him. He looked at the Oracle to make sure he was watching.

  Ashar could hardly restrain himself from wrenching loose of the strong hands that held him to attack the monster with nothing but his outrage, but he knew that doing so would be certain death. For him, the Oracle, and Celestine.

  “As I have told you my men are driven by a hunger you and I can’t understand. They feed on the spoils of conquest and . . .” Drakkor lifted a handful of Celestine’s silken hair and let it flow between his fingers. “The pleasures of the flesh.”

  The Oracle moved toward Drakkor, pleading with arms extended, “In the name of all things holy, I implore you! Do not—”

  Drakkor trampled on his words. “No, no, of course! I also find the lust of these men appalling. To allow them to violate the virgins of the temple is unthinkable.” Drakkor turned toward the sun again. It had escaped the wisp of clouds, and the light fell on his face. “If the stones of fire are gathered in my hand before the sun’s last rays are lost in the endless sea, I will protect the honor of these cherished creatures.” He laced his fingers through Celestine’s silken hair a second time. “And there will be no more blood staining the stones of my castle.” He looked up at the gleaming towers of the temple with the reverence of a pilgrim, then turned to the ashen face of the Oracle.

  “Which will it be, holy man? Blood or virtue?”

  CHAPTER 40

  The Oracle held Ashar’s arm as they climbed the stairs to the sanctum. His whole body trembled. “I have no choice,” he whispered under his breath. “May the God of gods forgive me.”

  Drakkor followed the Oracle with three of his men, one of whom had Celestine in his grip. The others ushered the trio of remaining sages: Armu-Tukic, Laehus, and Kurgaan.

  Ashar knew the hostages were being brought lest the Oracle forget the high stakes of Drakkor’s impossible proposition. He pleaded silently with Oum’ilah as the evil men entered the holy sanctum of the temple.

  Ashar removed the silken shroud from the box and opened the coffer as the Oracle instructed.

  Drakkor leaned over the plinth and stared into the box. His dark hair glistened in the sunlight that fell from the disc of polished copper above.

  “They are white!” Drakkor scowled.

  “As I have told you,” the Oracle said.

  Drakkor tightened his jaw. “Where are the rest?”

  “Lost,” the Oracle said.

  “You lie!” Drakkor pointed at the Oracle. “You have until the next beat of my heart to tell me where you have hidden the rest.”

  The Oracle looked up with pleading eyes. “I tell you the truth.”

  Ashar’s head pounded in cadence with the pummeling of his heart. He stopped breathing.

  Drakkor dragged Celestine to the center of the chamber and ripped away the thin fabric of her gown. “Who will have her first?” he shouted at his men.

  Ashar charged Drakkor in a blind rage. He was knocked to the stones by the iron hand of the brigand who had stepped forward to take the girl.

  Through a blur o
f blood and whirling fog, Ashar saw Celestine pushed to her knees. She covered herself with her arms across her chest.

  The Oracle stepped forward and put both hands on Drakkor’s chest. “I swear by the holy ground on which I stand, the other stones are lost, but . . .”

  The Oracle’s voice changed, and Ashar ripped his eyes from the girl and looked up at him.

  “But these are enough.”

  The brigand had Celestine by the wrist and was about to pull her to her feet, when Drakkor said, “Wait!” His voice was calm.

  The brigand scowled and let her go.

  Drakkor kept his eyes on the Oracle. “They are enough?”

  “I know what you seek. The magic power of these stones will be enough.”

  Magic? Ashar touched the throbbing pain in his head. His fingers came back sticky, wet, and red. He crawled to Celestine’s side and wrapped the silken shroud across her trembling, bare shoulders. Celestine thanked him with a blushing, fleeting glance.

  Ashar’s attention returned to the Oracle. Something about him had changed. Color had returned to the holy man’s face, and he moved with unexpected vigor. What is he going to do?

  “You do not know the prophecy,” Drakkor said. “All of the stones must be gathered in the hand of might by him worthy of the blood!”

  The Oracle raised his chin. “You embrace a corruption of the ancient sayings, but I say again: I can give you what you seek.”

  “The stones of fire?”

  “No. A life that does not end,” the Oracle said.

  Drakkor narrowed his eyes, and his face twitched as skepticism collided with vain hope. Then he cackled a scornful laugh. “You expect me to believe you have such magic?”

  “It is not by magic such a thing is wrought.”

  Ashar could feel a strange power emanating from the Oracle.

  Drakkor shifted his stance and stepped closer. “You ask me to believe in the power of a god that is naught. Is it a game you play with me, old fool?”

  “Does the prophecy not say endless life comes by the power of the ancient secret?”

  Drakkor nodded, but Ashar was confused. Those were not the words of the prophecy.

  “As I said, these stones may be enough, but only if bound by the secrets of the ancients. Do you carry the book of ancient spells? The ancient grimoire that contains the conjuration of the ancient mysteries? You do have it, do you not?” The Oracle’s tone was mocking.

  Drakkor’s face darkened and, though he tried to hide it, his expression confessed that he had no idea what the Oracle was talking about.

  “Did your Navigator steal that as well?” he said.

  The Oracle closed his eyes briefly and said, “I am guardian of all things pertaining to the stones of light.”

  In a flash, Ashar remembered the thick black planks of hardwood wrapped in a chain and sealed with wax that he had seen earlier that day in the chancery. Could it be?

  “You have the ancient book of spells. You know this ritual.” Drakkor’s voice retained some skepticism.

  The Oracle held Drakkor’s eyes, but did not speak.

  “And you would trade this secret for old men and children?”

  The Oracle nodded. “If you swear by the blood of she-dragon that you will leave the Mountain of God and never return.” He held Drakkor’s eyes, and Ashar could almost hear the silent prayers the Oracle offered. “With endless life, you will not need these ancient walls as a fortress. You will be king. You can have whatever castle or kingdom you want, or all of them.”

  “Where is this book of spells?”

  The Oracle tapped his forehead with three fingers and smiled.

  “How can I believe you?” Drakkor’s chortle cracked with disdain.

  The Oracle waved a frail hand toward the armed brigands and hostages. “Our lives are in your hands. You stand with a force of arms. We are old men who bear no weapons.”

  Ashar’s mouth was dry.

  “If you deceive me, you and every living soul on your mountain will die.” He let the warning hang in the air for a moment. Then he said, “What must I do?”

  “First, swear your oath that you will leave this mountain when it is done.”

  He grimaced. “By my honor and the blood of she-dragon, I swear it,” Drakkor said.

  CHAPTER 41

  Selmaas! Mother! Qhuin’s thoughts were far behind the parade of wagons, men, and horses moving south. They lingered instead in the courtyard of Stókenhold Fortress. He had never expected to see again the kitchen maid who’d nursed him as a child. He could still feel her arms around him. He would never forget the look of joy and wonder on her face. The scent of her: the pungent blend of sweet and sharp; hot baked bread and steaming broth. Breath sweet as a nip of honey from the combs. The memories brought a surge of delight and, with it, the face of Meesha smiling down. The moment she entered his mind, she filled his head and seized his thoughts.

  Meesha: the woman he had known as a child, the woman who had brought him food and shared the night, the beautiful woman who’d kissed him. The memory of her whirled through him in a flutter of happiness. How shall I ever thank her? Qhuin wondered. What power has given me such good fortune? he wondered. Truly the winged spirits of the God of gods is watching.

  His reverie was shattered by an angry voice.

  “Move ahead, bondsman!” the kings­rider bellowed at Qhuin as he rode alongside the chariot. The expedition had kicked up another storm of dust on its way across the dry lake basin north of the Tallgrass Prairie. Qhuin had fallen back for cleaner air, but the kings­rider riding rearward this day was more diligent than others. The man held his place and breathed the dust and demanded Qhuin do the same. The chariots ahead were little more than shapes in the billowing dust.

  “Pull up the slack! Move on!” he yelled again.

  Having felt a sense of freedom on the journey, the kings­rider’s demand was galling. He was a soldier, not a nobleman nor a master over Qhuin. By what right—Rusthammer interrupted Qhuin by whispering in his head as he often did. “To do, not to think, is the burden of bondage. You must never forget—the burden of bondage does not keep you from being free!”

  Qhuin squinted against the whirling sand, then, trusting his horses, he closed his eyes. Rusthammer grinned in the darkness as if their conversation never ended. “Masters and high-born dare not consider the mind of a man in bondage might be brighter and better than their own. They dare not allow that a slave is capable of intelligence, thinking, or emotions that bring pleasure or pain as real as their own.” It was almost as if Rusthammer stood beside him in the swirling dust. Qhuin’s thoughts drifted to the stables of Blackthorn. To Rusthammer.

  If the blacksmith Leo Rusthammer had a noble lineage, it had been lost. He never knew his father, and his mother died when he was very young. By tradition, only those with a legacy of smithing, working metal, and making accoutrements for the royal house were worthy to forge armor or weapons for the king. The importance of lineage was fundamental to the perpetuation of royal privilege. Rusthammer’s legacy should have kept him from the blacksmith station of Blackthorn. It didn’t.

  For all his failings, King Orsis-Kublan had the good sense to acknowledge Rusthammer’s extraordinary mastery of the forge. The king bequeathed him a worthy lineage and charged the scrivener to create ten generations of noble ancestors. Rusthammer never looked at it, but the document satisfied the pedants of protocol who cared deeply about such things.

  Most of the highborn of Blackthorn thought the blacksmith mad. “Suffering the curse of a demented mind,” some said. His irrational way of thinking and the impractical ideas he proposed were deemed by many as clear signs of a descent into madness.

  As long as the arms and armor emerging from the anvil and forge of Blackthorn continued to be splendid, however, the blacksmith was safe in the king’s royal shadow.

 
; Qhuin knew the blacksmith’s eccentricities were not madness but evidence of a brilliant mind. He also knew that Rusthammer did little to dispel the rumors that he was an eccentric out of touch with reality. It ensured that no one paid attention to what he did with his metal and forge beyond making weapons.

  Qhuin had seen many of the secret inventions the blacksmith had created, including Rusthammer’s most magnificent machine, kept hidden in the catacombs below the south end of the stables. Qhuin believed it was only a matter of time before the old blacksmith’s invention would be finished: the Iron Eagle, he called it. A machine that could fly, allowing men to soar into the sky alongside the birds.

  One evening, as they were finishing a lightweight chariot for the hunt, Rusthammer suddenly volunteered something that had nothing to do with their work. It was personal and spoken with utmost secrecy.

  “There is something you should know about me,” he had begun without looking up from where he secured the cowling. There was a long pause before he continued. “I do not believe in the gods of the ancient tower. I have come to understand the old gods are the creations of men, spawned from their fearful imaginings. They are idols with no more significance than the wood and stone from which they are made.”

  To be complacent about religion was not uncommon. To reject the beliefs of the king was considered a path to trouble if not ultimate demise. Qhuin understood his old friend’s need for secrecy.

  Rusthammer continued. “As a boy, I was fed the mythos of the old gods of the tower. When I began to think for myself, I was drawn to the religion of the Navigator and Oum’ilah, God of gods and Creator of All Things. I became a pilgrim, and”—he paused as if considering whether to share his secret, then smiled with confidence—“for a brief time I lived at the temple on the Mountain of God. While there, I was befriended by the keeper of the chancery and given access to writings handed down a hundred generations. By his leave, I was allowed to make copies of the ancient works.”

  Qhuin was spellbound. His mind was racing and reaching and wanting to know more.