The trail dipped downward again and another hollow appeared, this one shaggy with brush and scrub that had filled the gaps left with the passing of the trees. They moved into it, shoving their way past brambles and stickers, angling for the open spaces where the trail wound ahead. Shadows lay thick across the hollow as the light began to creep westward. The forests about them formed a wall of dark silence.
They had just entered a clearing at the center of the hollow when Quickening suddenly slowed. “Stand still,” she said.
They did so instantly, looking first at her, then at the brush all about them. Something was moving. Figures began to detach themselves, breaking their concealment, moving into the light. There were hundreds of them—small, squat creatures with hairy, gnarled limbs and bony features. They looked as if they had grown out of the scrub, so like it were they, and it was only the short pants and weapons that seemed to separate the two. The weapons were formidable—short spears and strangely shaped throwing implements with razor edges. The creatures held them threateningly as they advanced.
“Urdas,” Horner Dees said quietly. “Don't move.”
No one did, not even Pe Ell who was crouched in much the same way as the creatures who menaced him.
“Who are they?” Morgan asked of Dees, at the same time backing protectively toward Quickening.
“Gnomes,” the other said. “With a little Troll thrown in. No one has ever been sure of the exact mix. You don't find them anywhere south of the Charnals. They're Northlanders as much as the Trolls. Tribal like the Gnomes. Very dangerous.”
The Urdas were all about them now, closing off any chance of escape. They had thickly muscled bodies with short, powerful legs and long arms, and their faces were blunt and expressionless. Morgan tried to read something of what they might be thinking in their yellow eyes, but failed.
Then he noticed that they were all looking at Quickening.
“What do we do?” he asked Dees in an anxious whisper, worried now.
Dees shook his head.
The Urdas moved to within a dozen feet of the company and stopped. They did not threaten; they did not speak. They simply stood there, watching Quickening for the most part, but waiting as well.
Waiting for what? Morgan asked himself silently.
And at almost the same moment the brush parted, and a golden-haired man stepped into view. Instantly the Urdas dropped to one knee, heads bowed in recognition. The golden-haired man looked at the five beleaguered members of the surrounded company and smiled.
“The King has come,” he said brightly. “Long live the King.”
14
Would you lay down your weapons, please?” the man called out to them cheerfully. “Just put them on the ground in front of you. Don't worry. You can pick them up again in a moment.”
He sang:
“Nothing given freely is ever given up.
It will be given back to you
Through others' love and trust.”
The five from Rampling Steep stared at him.
“Please?” he said. “It will make things so much easier if you do.”
Dees glanced at the others, shrugged, and did as he was asked. Neither
Walker nor Quickening carried any weapons. Morgan hesitated. Pe Ell didn't move at all.
“This is only for the purpose of demonstrating your friendship,” the man went on encouragingly. “If you don't lay down your weapons, my subjects won't allow me to approach. I'll have to keep shouting at you from over here.”
He sang:
“High, low, wherever we may go,
I'll have to keep on shouting out to you.”
Morgan, after a sharp glance from Dees, complied. It was hard to tell what Pe Ell might have done if Quickening hadn't turned to him and whispered, “Do as he says.” Pe Ell hesitated even then before unstrapping his broadsword. The look on his hard face was unmistakable. The broadsword notwithstanding, Morgan was willing to bet that Pe Ell still had a weapon concealed on him somewhere.
“Much better,” the stranger announced. “Now step back a pace. There!” He beckoned, and the Urdas came quickly to their feet. He was a man of average height and build, his movements quick and energetic, and his clean-shaven face handsome beneath his long blond hair. His blue eyes twinkled. He gestured at the Urdas and then at the weapons on the ground. The odd-looking creatures muttered agreeably and heads began to nod. He sang again, a short piece that the Urdas seemed to recognize, his voice full and rich, his handsome face beaming. When he finished, the circle parted to let him pass. He came directly up to Quickening, bowed low before her, took her hand in his own and kissed it. “My lady,” he said.
He sang:
“Five travelers crossed field and stream
And Eastland forests wide.
They crossed the Charnal Mountain range
To gain the Northland side.
Tra-la-la-diddie-oh-day.
Five travelers came from afar
And entered Urda Land.
They braved the dangers of the Spikes
To meet King Carisman.
Tra-la-la-diddie-oh-day.”
He bowed to Quickening again. “That is my name, Lady. Carisman. And yours?”
Quickening gave it to him and those of her companions as well. She seemed unconcerned that he knew. “Are you indeed a king?” she asked.
Carisman beamed. “Oh, yes, Lady. I am king of the Urdas, lord of all those you now survey and many, many more. To be honest, I did not seek out the job. It was thrust upon me, as they say. But come now. Time enough to tell that tale later. Pick up your weapons—carefully, of course. We mustn't alarm my subjects; they are very protective of me. I shall take you to my palace and we shall talk and drink wine and eat exotic fruits and fishes. Come now, come. It shall be a royal feast!”
Dees tried to say something, but Carisman was gone as swiftly as a feather caught by the wind, dancing away, singing some new song, and beckoning them to follow. The Tracker, Morgan, and Pe Ell retrieved their weapons and with Walker and Quickening in tow, started after. Urdas surrounded them on all sides, not pressing in on them, but staying uncomfortably close nevertheless. The odd creatures did not speak, but merely gestured to one another, their eyes shifting from Carisman to the travelers, inquisitive and cautious. Morgan returned the gaze of those closest and tried a smile. They did not smile back.
The gathering went down off the Spikes into the forested valley below, west of the ridgeline where the shadows were deepest. There was a narrow trail that wound through the trees, and the procession followed it dutifully, Carisman in the lead, singing as he went. Morgan had encountered some odd characters in his time, but Carisman struck him as odder than most. He could not help wondering why anyone, even the Urdas, would make this fellow their king.
Dees had dropped back a pace to walk with him, and he asked the old Tracker. “As I said, a tribal folk. Superstitious, like most Gnomes. Believe in spirits and wraiths and other nonsense.”
“But Carisman?” Morgan questioned.
Dees shook his head. “I admit I can't figure it. Urdas usually don't want anything to do with outlanders. This one seems goofy as a week-old loon, but he's obviously found some way of gaining their respect. I never heard of him before this. Don't think anyone has.”
Morgan peered over the heads of the Urdas at the prancing Carisman. “He seems harmless enough.”
Dees snorted. “He probably is. Anyway, it isn't him you have to worry about.”
They worked their way west toward the wall of the mountains, daylight fading rapidly now, dusk spreading until the whole of the forestland was enveloped. Morgan and Dees continued to exchange comments, but the other three kept their thoughts to themselves. Walker and Pe Ell were gaunt shadows, Quickening a burst of sunlight. The Urdas filtered out about them, appearing and disappearing in the heavy brush, strung out ahead, behind, and to either side. Carisman's words had suggested that they were guests, but Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were
really prisoners.
After a little more than a mile, the trail ended at a clearing in which the village of the Urdas was settled. A stockade had been built to protect the village from raiders, and its gates opened now to let the hunters and those they shepherded pass through. A sea of women, children, and old people waited within, bonyfaced and staring, their voices a low, inaudible buzz. The village consisted of a cluster of small huts and open-sided shelters surrounding a lodge constructed of notched logs and a shingled roof. Trees grew inside the stockade, shading the village and providing supports for treeways and lifts. There were wells scattered about and smokehouses for curing meat. The Urdas, it appeared, had at least rudimentary skills.
The five from Rampling Steep were taken to the main lodge and led to a platform on which a rough-hewn chair draped with a garland of fresh flowers was situated. Carisman seated himself ceremoniously and beckoned his guests to take their places next to him on mats. Morgan and the others did as they were asked, keeping a wary eye on the Urdas, a large number of whom entered as well and took seats on the floor below the platform. When everyone was settled, Carisman came to his feet and sang some more, this time in a tongue that Morgan found impossible to identify. When he was finished, a handful of Urda women began to bring out platters of food.
Carisman sat down. “I have to sing to get them to do anything,” he confided. “It is so tedious sometimes.”
“What are you doing here anyway?” Horner Dees asked bluntly. “Where did you come from?”
“Ah,” Carisman said with a sigh.
He sang:
“There was a young tunesmith from Rampling,
Who felt it was time to take wing. He decided to hike,
North into the Spikes,
To the Urdas, who made him their king!”
He grimaced. “Not very original, I'm afraid. Let me try again.” He sang:
“Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,
There are worlds to discover more'n what meets the eye.
Far reaches to travel and people to see,
Wonders to gaze on and lives for to lead,
A million adventures to try.
Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,
A tunesmith's a man who must sing for to fly.
He searches the byways for songs telling truth,
Seeks out hidden meanings and offers of proof,
Of the reasons for being alive.
Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,
For life's to be found in the rivers and skies.
In the forests and mountains that lie far away,
In the creatures that frolic and gambol and play,
And beg me my songs to apply.”
“Considerably better, don't you think?” he asked them, blue eyes darting from one face to the next, anxiously seeking their approval.
“A tunesmith, are you?” Dees grunted. “From Rampling Steep?”
“Well, by way of Rampling Steep. I was there a day or so once several years back.” Carisman looked sheepish. “The rhyme works, so I use it.” He brightened. “But a tunesmith, yes. All my life. I have the gift of song and the wit to make use of it. I have talent.”
“But why are you here, Carisman?” Quickening pressed.
Carisman seemed to melt. “Lady, chance has brought me to this place and time and even to you. I have traveled the better part of the Four Lands, searching out the songs that would give wings to my music. There is a restlessness in me that will not let me stay in any one place for very long. I have had my chances to do so, and even ladies who wished to keep me—though none was as beautiful as you. But I keep moving. I wandered first west, then east, and finally north. I passed through Rampling Steep and found myself wondering what lay beyond. Finally I set out across the mountains to see.”
“And survived?” Horner Dees asked incredulously.
“Just barely. I have a sense of things; it comes from my music, I think. I was well provisioned, for I had traveled in rough country before. I found my way by listening to my heart. I had the good fortune of encountering favorable weather. When I was finally across—exhausted and close to starving, I admit—I was found by the Urdas. Not knowing what else to do, I sang for them. They were enchanted by my music and they made me their king.”
“Enchanted by limericks and snippets of rhyme?” Dees refused to let go of his skepticism. “A bold claim, Carisman.”
Carisman grinned boyishly. “Oh, I don't claim to be a better man than any other.”
He sang:
“No matter how high or lofty the throne,
What sits on it is the same as your own.”
He brushed the matter aside. “Eat now, you must be very hungry after your journey. There is as much food and drink as you want. And tell me what brings you here. No one from the Southland ever comes this far north—not even the trappers. I never see anyone except Trolls and Gnomes. What brings you?”
Quickening told him that they were on a quest, that they had come in search of a talisman. It was more than Morgan would have revealed, but it seemed to matter little to Carisman, who did not even bother asking what the talisman was or why they needed it but only wanted to know if Quickening could teach him any new songs. Carisman was quick and bright, yet his focus was quixotic and narrow. He was like a child, inquisitive and distracted and full of the wonder of things. He seemed to genuinely need approval. Quickening was the most responsive, so he concentrated his attention on her and included the others in his conversation mostly by implication. Morgan listened disinterestedly as he ate, then noticed that Walker wasn't listening at all, that he was studying the Urdas below the platform. Morgan began studying them as well. After a time he saw that they were seated in carefully defined groups, and that the foremost group consisted of a mixed gathering of old and young men to whom all the others deferred. Chiefs, thought Morgan at once. They were talking intently among themselves, glancing now and then at the six seated on the platform, but otherwise ignoring them. Something was being decided, without Carisman.
Morgan grew nervous.
The meal ended and the empty plates were carried away. There was a sustained clapping from the Urdas, and Carisman rose to his feet with a sigh. He sang once more, but this time the song was different. This time it was studied and intricate, a finely wrought piece of music filled with nuances and subtleties that transcended the tune. Carisman's voice filled the lodge, it soared and swept aside everything that separated it from the senses, reaching down through the body to embrace and cradle the heart. Morgan was astounded. He had never been so affected—not even by the music of the wishsong. Par Ohmsford could capture your feeling for and sense of history in his song, but Carisman could capture your soul.
When the tunesmith was finished, there was utter silence. Slowly he sat down again, momentarily lost in himself, still caught up in what he had sung. Then the Urdas began thumping their hands on their knees approvingly.
Quickening said, “That was beautiful, Carisman.”
“Thank you, Lady,” he replied, sheepish again. “I have a talent for more than limericks, you see.”
The silver-haired girl looked suddenly at Walker. “Did you find it beautiful, Walker Boh?”
The pale face inclined in thought. “It makes me wonder why someone who possesses such abilities chooses to share them with so few.” The dark eyes fixed Carisman.
The tunesmith squirmed uncomfortably. “Well.” The words suddenly would not seem to come.
“Especially since you said yourself that there is a restlessness in you that will not allow you to stay in one place. Yet you stay here among the Urdas.”
Carisman looked down at his hands.
“They will not let you leave, will they?” Walker said quietly.
Carisman looked as if he would sink into the earth. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “For all that I am, a king notwithstanding, I remain a captive. I am allowed to be king only so long as I sing my songs. The Urdas keep me
because they believe my song is magic.”
“And so it is,” Quickening murmured so softly that only Morgan, seated next to her, heard.
“What about us?” Dees demanded sharply. He shifted his bulk menacingly. “Are we captives as well? Have you brought us here as guests or prisoners, King Carisman? Or do you even have a say in the matter?”
“Oh, no!” the tunesmith exclaimed, clearly distraught. “I mean, yes, I have a say in the matter. And, no, you are not prisoners. I need only speak with the council, those men gathered there below us.” He pointed to the group that Walker and Morgan had been observing earlier. Then he hesitated as he caught the black look on Pe Ell's face and came hurriedly to his feet. “I shall speak to them at once. If need be, I shall sing. A special song. You shall not remain here any longer than you wish, I promise. Lady, believe me, please. Friends.”
He rushed from the platform and knelt next to the members of the Urda council, addressing them earnestly. The five who waited to discover whether they were guests or prisoners looked at one another.
“I don't think he can do anything to help us,” Horner Dees muttered.
Pe Ell edged forward. “If I put a knife to his throat they will release us quick enough.”
“Or kill us on the spot,” Dees replied with a hiss. The two glared at each other.
“Let him have his chance,” Walker Boh said, looking calmly at the assemblage. His face was unreadable.
“Yes,” Quickening agreed softly. “Patience.”
They sat silently after that until Carisman returned, detaching himself from the council, stepping back onto the platform to face them. His face told them everything. “I … I have to ask you to stay the night,” he said, struggling to get the words out, discomforted beyond measure. “The council wishes to … debate the matter a bit. Just a formality, you understand. I simply require a little time …”
He trailed off uncertainly. He had positioned himself as far as possible from Pe Ell. Morgan held his breath. He didn't think the distance separating the two offered the tunesmith much protection. He found himself wondering, almost in fascination, what Pe Ell would do, what he could in fact do against so many.