The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  Anger gripped his chest, and his heart pounded faster as he stared at the mysterious stone. His failure to get the stones of fire from the temple of Oum’ilah screamed in his head.

  He felt betrayed, but there was no one to blame. In all his preparation, the way had been opened to him. He had learned to use the magic of the stone he carried. He could feel its power growing within him, his understanding of its secrets becoming clearer. In besieging the Mountain of God, he’d been certain the whole of the prophecy would be fulfilled. He would gather the stones, learn to use their power, become king, and, by his brilliance, be crowned with endless life.

  He had failed.

  A hard knot tightened at core of his being. An old man, a witless giant, and a boy had defeated him. Worse, the boy had escaped with the stones. His stones! He wondered if his assassins had found them yet. Recovered his stones. Captured the boy. Killed the giant. Ravished the girl. It was only a matter of time.

  Drakkor’s men had seized the temple of Oum’ilah intending to make it a stronghold for the Blood of the Dragon. Drakkor would have allowed it had they not been thwarted by the curse. What else could it be? Was the old man a sorcerer? He shuddered as fragments of what had happened on the mountain returned to taunt him.

  The sanctum, the sanctuary, the chancery, and accessible chambers had been ransacked and searched for the legendary treasures of the temple. Every ornamentation of gold or silver or precious stones was pillaged from the shrines, the walls, and the hanging chandeliers.

  As twilight crept toward night the day after the attack, Drakkor gathered the Blessed Sages and anyone else still alive.

  “It is senseless for you to die,” he said. “Your loyalty is misplaced. Your blessed Oracle has abandoned you. Your god of the mountain has gone missing and allowed your brothers to die.”

  The sages huddled like sheep caught in a winter storm.

  “I regret the old man in whom you trusted has brought such misfortune upon you. My men will find a way to the summit. The Oracle will be thrown from the heights and the boy brought to me. We will stay until I get what I have come for.”

  The courage of the boy who dared to stand against him in the sanctum gave him pause. That brave but stupid boy. How he wished the postulant had followed him. Had spared him the setback and complications he now faced.

  Blessed Sage Kurgaan stepped forward and wagged a crooked finger in Drakkor’s face.

  “The God of gods and Creator of All Things will not forbear His holy mountain to become the residence of evil.” The Mankin’s voice was strong and his warning spoken without fear. “The winged spirits of God will not allow your men to reach the hallowed fane.” His head hardly reached the bandit’s belly, but he sounded like a giant.

  “In your murder of innocents and your desecration of this holy place, you have invoked the wrath of Oum’ilah.”

  Drakkor laughed. “And where exactly is this angry god of yours?”

  “You and your minions of evil shall be cursed and grievous afflictions will drive you from this holy place.”

  Drakkor gripped the Mankin and lifted him by his neck until their faces were close. “You threaten me with a curse, old fool?”

  “Evil begets evil,” Kurgaan choked. “As I have spoken it, by the powers of the God of gods, it shall be done.”

  Drakkor was about to crush the Mankin’s throat when a fierce wind howled across the court. Black clouds covered the mountain, and the sun disappeared. Drakkor’s men had heard the sage’s curse, and when the storm erupted, they feared the power of the Mankin’s god.

  “Leave them be, Lord Drakkor,” the fearful among his men cried.

  Drakkor released the Mankin but stood defiant in the pelting hail and mocked their fear.

  The Mankin gathered the others and disappeared into the endless halls.

  The darkness thickened and even fire would not burn. Drakkor’s men claimed to see ghosts of the temple in the endless night—a giant shadow just before their fellow soldiers died.

  Drakkor killed the first man who dared suggest they leave the mountain. No superstition was more powerful than the fear of death, and so the desecrators of the temple withstood the fearful night.

  “There is no curse,” Drakkor bellowed. “It is the darkness of the storm and shall pass.” And so it did—the fierce winds ceased, the hail stopped, and the black clouds that covered the mountains blew away.

  As dawn broke, the wounded kingsman from the south steps limped to Drakkor with the bad news.

  “The boy who took the stones escaped with the giant, and took a girl with them.”

  Drakkor killed the messenger and then turned to Lliam Rejeff. Rejeff had been the first kings­rider to step forward and pledge his sword to Drakkor after Captain Borklore lost his head. The wound in his arm had healed, but his face remained scarred from the fire.

  “Take twelve of your most trusted men. Go after the boy, the giant, and the girl. Kill the giant, but bring the boy—and the stones—to me. Chase them to the end of the known world and beyond if you must, but do not fail me!”

  Rejeff pounded a fist across his heart in the salute of loyalty. “And the girl?”

  A scoff of a smile twitched at the corner of Drakkor’s mouth. “As you will, loyal Rejeff.”

  Rejeff and his men had not been gone an hour before the scourge of death came.

  Bees rose up from the cliffs in a billowing swarm of yellow and black. The stentorian hum of their wings was piercing. Their stings were deadly. The encampment of brigands and turncoat kings­riders erupted in chaos. The air was so thick with the winging, stinging insects the men could hardly gasp a breath without inhaling a bee into their mouths or lungs. The stingers went deep, the barbs held fast, and the toxic poison set fire to their skin. Their horses went wild.

  Drakkor was left no choice. Whether from the curse of the Mankin, the displeasure of the god of the mountain, or extreme misfortune, he relented and retreated.

  In the madness that followed, his men loaded their horses with plunder and rode from the mountain. Some of them dragged kidnapped victims across the rumps of their horses.

  The last thing Drakkor had seen was the huddle of sages in a pocket of light, untouched by the swarm of bees. He could not scrub the image from his mind, which troubled him.

  Anger pulled him back from his vexation. He gripped the stone so tightly in his fist his knuckles turned white. He inhaled deeply to calm himself, then, glancing about the chamber to be certain he was alone, he returned the stone to the sack and put the sack in a small bronze vessel. He glanced about a second time, then moved the thick fur of an ice-bear pelt aside and pried up a slab of stone, perfectly cut and fitted into the floor.

  The opening beneath was one end of a large chamber covered by a row of flat stones laid side by side. It was large enough to hide a man, but Drakkor had more important things to protect.

  He lifted the shroud covering an iron box and placed the vessel with the stone inside. He remained crouched as his eyes wandered over his secret treasures.

  Drakkor’s raid on the temple of Oum’ilah had not yielded the stones of light as planned, but it had added treasures of inestimable value to his secret city. His men may revel in gold and precious stones. Not he.

  Drakkor dragged his fingers across the large book next to the iron box. The leather cover was worn and tattered, but the touch of it soothed the fire still smoldering in the pit of his stomach. There was no other like it in the known world. It was a cubitum wide and a cubitum and a half long. The ancient pages of goatskin made it as thick as the span of a man’s hand.

  The archaic book had been brought to Drakkor during the raid of the temple. He had hardly cracked the thick, stiff leather of the binding before he felt its mystical power. He had heard of its existence but never imagined that he would find the grimoire of ancient mysteries. The lost book of secret spells an
d dark magic. The forbidden, covert oaths and secret combinations of the ancients from the time of the great tower.

  The sight of the book unraveled the twist of anger in his stomach. He replaced the shroud, the slab of stone, and the ice-bear pelt. He left the room and passed beneath an arch that opened to a broad stone porch.

  Looking down, his gaze swept over his new stronghold. He did not believe his misfortune on the Mountain of God was governed by the curse of an old dwarf. No mythical God of gods could thwart his destiny. There is no power but my own, the magic of the stone of fire and bequest of she-dragon.

  Anger twisted again, but he pushed it away. What he had imagined to be a fracturing of destiny was in truth good fortune. The ancient ruin of Hellosós was a better location to establish a stronghold. It was a hidden place protected by a valley of fear. With the number of men quartered here, repairing walls and building shelters, it was becoming a village. The thought pleased him.

  The pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer gave his secluded world the cadence of a beating heart as if the ancient ruin was a living thing. Sparks erupted with each clank of the hammer like a fleeing horde of lightning bugs. A kitchen had been built around an ancient kiln. Salvaged timbers had been fashioned into a long table where his men gathered to feast and drink and lie about their exploits when the sun was gone. Even the kings­riders, many of whom he did not yet fully trust, were allowed to join.

  There was a growing number of women as well. Most were lowborns or prostitutes willing to trade themselves for what they imagined was a better life than the despair of their grim circumstance. Some of the women were captives, taken as slaves and servants to work in the kitchen and serve the needs of a permanent encampment.

  Six temple virgins had been kidnapped during the raid. When Drakkor found out, he whipped the men who had brought them and ordered the girls returned to Village Candella.

  Drakkor knew his men were puzzled by his contradictions. Some believed he’d taken them into his confidence, but there were none who really knew him. Who he was or where he came from. All that had happened in the years he’d wandered in the lands northward, beyond the River of Smoke. He spoke of his past only as “the years of cleansing.” No one knew what that meant.

  From where he stood on the open porch, the yellow flames of lanterns below was a tiny universe of glimmering stars. To the east, he could see the fires of the kings­riders who were quartered at the entrance of his secret city.

  When they fled the mountain of the temple, many of the kings­riders conscripted from Borklore’s command ran away. Some deserted from fear. Some had a change of heart and wanted to escape Drakkor’s army. All but a few of them were gathered up and taken to Hellosós where they were separated from the core band of men he could trust and kept under guard.

  Once a traitor, always a traitor. He knew the dictum, though he hoped some of the turncoats would prove themselves loyal. Some already had. Those who didn’t would die in battle or would be killed by Drakkor’s own sword.

  As he thought of them, his mood turned foul. Some few of them had recently managed to escape the compound. He’d had to double the guards at the encampment.

  The night fell silent except for the faint wailing of the wretched souls cursed with the plague.

  The valley of the Curse’ed was another reason Drakkor had bivouacked the turncoat kings­riders at the entrance to the ruins of Hellosós. It was where the ancient wall closed off the canyon. Remnants of the magnificent gate that had once stood there could still be seen. The ornate arch had long since fallen and lay in massive chunks of broken stone carved with images and strange symbols.

  On the other side of the wall, three leagues southeast, those stricken with the plague lived in caves and primitive dwellings. From time to time, a few desperate infected people tried to sneak into the ruins to steal a pig or dog or a flask of wine. Some came to the gate to beg. The kings­riders encampment was a human wall that isolated Drakkor and the men of the main garrison from the sickness.

  There was a sudden noise and frantic movement in the village below. Men ran from the cobbled road leading to the gate and stumbled into the plaza. They were shouting. A warning? Drakkor strained to catch the words, but they were lost in a cacophony of commotion.

  “Drakkor! Drakkor!” Other voices joined the choir screaming for the bandit king. He strode down the steps. By the time he reached the plaza, most of his men were there. They had run from their hovels, their horses, their chores, and their leisure. A few cowered behind broken walls and pillars, uncertain what had caused such tumult.

  “The curse’ed have breached the gate,” the runner gasped as Drakkor approached. He pointed to the portal that spanned the entrance to the cobbled road.

  “How many?” Drakkor demanded.

  “I saw only two of them before I ran. They were hunched and dripping with pus and poison and—” Before the man could finish gasping out his words in short and frightened breaths, Drakkor crossed to the portal in long, swift strides.

  Something moved in the shadow.

  “Show yourself!” Drakkor demanded.

  A terrified child, no more than six, stepped into the glow of the fire. He shuffled a few steps forward and stopped, his eyes downcast. A woman edged herself behind him. She was young, and her long black hair shimmered in the firelight. She might have been beautiful if her arms and legs had not been wrapped with gauze stained by pus and blood. She held a wrap of gauze across her face with a stump of a hand; her fingers had rotted away. Her dark eyes peered from sockets deepened by lumps of flesh like warts of a toad.

  Drakkor was rarely without words, but he stared at the boy and his pitiful mother in silence.

  “He is not infected, m’lord,” the woman said. Her voice was muted by the soiled rag across her face. “Save him from me! I beg you. He was born before I was stricken, but they condemned him as a curse’ed one because I touched him—because I held him in my arms. Please, gracious lord! Take him from me and save him from the horror of my affliction.” The woman fell on her knees and wept. “I beg you, save my child, mighty lord, and for your kindness the God of gods will bless you with the wishes of your heart.”

  The invocation was a familiar one among peasants and pilgrims, usually easy to disregard, but her weeping words caused a strange tingling to race up his spine.

  An archer nocked an arrow and stepped beside Drakkor. “By your leave, m’lord. Shall I end their misery and put them to the fire?”

  “No!”

  The man choked back his fear. “But the air is poisoned by their breath. The men and I—”

  “Stand down and cover your face with wet wool if you fear the poor woman.” Drakkor opened his palm to the archer. “Your knife,” he demanded.

  The woman gasped. “No, no—have mercy, gracious lord.”

  Drakkor calmed her with a reassuring hand and squatted until his eyes were level with the boy. Moving the blade with caution, he cut away the child’s ragged clothes. Drakkor twirled a finger, and the naked boy turned in a circle. His eyes were bright and clear, and, though his skin was dirty, there were no oozing pustules.

  “Are you hungry?” When the boy nodded, Drakkor held out a hand and the nearest of his brigands handed him a piece of bread smeared with pig’s fat, which he gave to the boy. The boy hardly moved until Drakkor nodded his head. The child took a hungry bite and then another.

  Drakkor stood and looked at the women of the kitchen who were gathered in a cluster near the wall. He motioned for the youngest to come forward.

  “What is your name?” Drakkor asked.

  “Batyah, m’lord.”

  “This child is yours, Batyah.” He ushered the boy toward her. “You are no longer required in the kitchen. Raise him as your own and treat him well.”

  The boy’s mother watched with tears streaming down her face. “May the God of gods bless you forever,” she we
pt.

  “Fill two baskets with food,” Drakkor said to the other kitchen women. “And follow this woman until she has passed the gates, then leave the baskets for her and also a flagon of wine.”

  They hurried to obey.

  Drakkor looked after the mother as she walked away. She stopped at the portal for one last look at her son, then disappeared into the darkness. The mother’s sacrifice for her child was an act of selflessness that Drakkor had never witnessed. An act of pure love he didn’t understand. His thoughts were as tangled as a fistful of worms.

  Compared to the mother’s love for her child, the loyalty of his men was hollow. He was almost overwhelmed by a suffocating emptiness. He whirled and ascended the steps to the ruins of the ancient city.

  CHAPTER 66

  “I want the stallion!” Kadesh-Cor said. “Whether he is the Equus of legend or, as Horsemaster Raahud has supposed, an Equus given to me by the gods in my own time, it is the same.”

  The evening meal was finished. The prince stood at the end of the table and surveyed his invited guests.

  “We have no fear of wild men nor monsters, m’lord.” The captain’s husky voice quavered. “We will ride into the fires of the infernal abyss if it pleases the king, but we are his, and without his command, we may not risk life and limb in search of a horse.”

  “Equus is more than a horse, good captain,” Kadesh-Cor said.

  “Yes, m’lord,” the kings­rider replied with a slight tilt of his head. “Still.”

  Qhuin sat at the table. To his surprise, he had not been dismissed when the eating ended and talk of catching Equus consumed the conversation.

  He sat in Sargon’s place at the left hand of the prince. His wrists and ankles had been smeared with an elixir of oil, wine, and honey and then wrapped in silk. His clothes were damp from being washed, but his feet were dry. The courtesan had fitted him with stockings and somehow found and cleaned his boots. He remembered the girl’s hands caressing his feet and quivered.