“There is no time, Theido. No time. Already it is too late.”
“It is not too late, Lord. But it will be if you delay.”
“Go, then, and see what can be done.”
Theido was about to agree, hesitated, and instead replied, “I will not give the order, Sire. That you must do. And you must ride at the head of your troops if we are to show Ameronis and his friends that we will brook no treason in this realm.”
Again Quentin lay silent. Theido could not tell if his words were finding their mark or if his listener was so far given to his despair that nothing could reach him. The knight said a silent prayer to the Most High to move the king once more to action. “Defend your throne, my lord,” Theido said. “Come. Ride with us. Lead us.”
Quentin sighed and passed a hand before his eyes. “No, I am no king. Leave me.”
“Who will lead the troops if you will not?”
“You will lead them.”
“I will not.”
“Ronsard, then. Anyone. I do not care.”
Theido knew he was beaten then, turned away, and walked to the door. With his hand on the latch, he paused and said, “There are those who will give their lives for you and your throne. And many more will brave danger in service to you. Durwin did, and Toli—and others you know nothing of. Will you not lift a hand to save yourself ?” With that he closed the door.
The king heard his footsteps diminishing in the corridor, and lay staring up into the darkness of his blackened room. He did not move.
“Well?” Ronsard asked, already guessing the answer, for it was written in the gray, weary lines of his friend’s face.
“He will not ride. I fear we have lost our king even before a single blow has been delivered.”
“If our king gives himself over to defeat, then our kingdom is in disarray. The jackals will tear it to pieces.”
Theido drew a deep breath. “That, at least, we can hold off for a little longer. We will ride to Ameron-on-Sipleth and do what we can.” He cast an eye skyward. “If we ride all night, we can be there by morning.”
As twilight tinted the bowl of heaven the color of dark wine, the Dragon King’s army left Askelon. In all the times of leaving, in all the wars when Mensandor’s men-at-arms had answered the call and marched forth into battle, in all the frightful days when foe threatened and peace would be won only by lance and sword, there had never been a more silent departure.
The troops filed through the outer ward and gatehouse, over the immense drawbridge spanning the dry moat, and down the long ramp to wend through the streets of the city. The knights came first on horseback, their armor bundled beneath netting behind the saddles of their squires. The footmen were next, marching together in long ranks, not speaking—for word had spread though the file that the Dragon King had not the heart to lead his men. After the footmen came the heavy wagons loaded with provisions and weapons for the footmen and knights; smiths’ and surgeons’ wains with supplies and tools for mending broken men and their armaments formed the rear of the train.
The silent army passed through the streets of the city like a ghostly phalanx whispering off to some forgotten battle on the mists of time. No one came out to mark their passing; no citizen cheered their march. The streets remained empty of all but a few mongrel dogs, hungry looking and scabby, who ran yapping at the horses’ hooves.
At the head of the troops rode Ronsard and Theido side by side, upright in the saddle, eyes ahead. They did not speak, but wrapped themselves in their own thoughts like cloaks against the night. And though the night was warm, there was an atmosphere of melancholy and futility that chilled the air. All felt it who followed the banner of the Dragon King that night.
41
Elder Jollen sat stroking his beard in the firelight, staring into the glowing embers on the hearth; next to him sat his wife, Morwenna, and Alinea beside her. Bria and Esme, opposite the esteemed elder, watched him carefully, waiting for what he would say. Shadows flickered on the walls, and in one corner a cricket chirped its night song. Finally, his chest rising as he drew air deep into his lungs, he looked up and said, “Yes, I agree. You must go back at once. The dream, as Biorkis suggests, has been given as a warning for you to return—or a sign that you must be present to witness the event which is foretold and will take place soon. Either way you must go.”
“Thank you, Elder Jollen. Your words make my heart rest easier in its decision,” Bria answered.
“I could discuss this with the other elders if you like, but I have no doubt that they will say what I have already said. Yes, go. I know that you have hardly had time to rest from your journey and now must leave, but we will pray that the god will give you strength for your travels.”
“I hate the thought of leaving,” said Esme. “In so short a time I have come to feel very comfortable here—almost as if I belong here.”
Jollen looked at her, nodding to himself as if he could see something in her that no one else could. “Perhaps the god is speaking to you, Esme. It may be that he has a place for you here among us. In any event, you will always be welcome in Dekra. Return when you may, and stay as long as you care to; allow your heart to find itself again.”
The elder’s last words surprised Esme. “Did Bria tell you about my . . . my troubles?”
Jollen’s smile was gentle. “No, my lady. I did not need words to tell me that you have been a party to much pain and sadness of late. From the moment you came through the gate I saw much in you of the little child lost.”
Esme lowered her eyes and stared at her hands in her lap. “It is so apparent, then?”
“No!” replied Bria.
“No, no—perhaps not to everyone,” admitted Elder Jollen. “But it is part of my gift that I see most clearly the shape of the inner soul. I do not speak to shame you, Esme. Only to tell you that we know of your hurts and have been praying for you since you entered here.”
“I thank you for your prayers. And I have felt more at peace here than at any time since . . .” Her voice faltered and she paused, letting her words trail off.
Morwenna rose and put an arm around her. “Come back when your work is done, and stay with us. It would be an honor to have you here.”
“My work?” Esme looked around at the group. “What do you mean by ‘my work’?”
“Of us all, Esme,” replied Alinea, “you are the one who had the vision; you are the one to whom the Most High has spoken.”
“I have some part to play in this?”
Elder Jollen chuckled lightly. “We all do, to be sure. But yours is a special part. The Most High has revealed to you alone something of his plan. Yes, his hand is on you, Esme.”
They talked a little more then, about commonplace things and preparations that had been made for their departure early the next morning. But nothing more was said of Esme’s dream or its possible significance, though all knew that some word of power had been spoken among them and that it would result in some great deed as yet unforeseen, and that this was what sent the women hurrying off once more. When they rose reluctantly to go to their beds, Morwenna led them to the door, saying, “I will come to bring you breakfast and to see you away in the morning.”
“Please do not bother,” said the queen. “You have all done so much for us already.”
“It is no trouble.” Morwenna dismissed Bria’s comment with a whisk of her hand. “I only regret that I have not had the pleasure of spending more time with your little ones. They are charming! You must bring them back soon, and Quentin too. He has been too long away.”
“He would agree with you, I know.” Bria took Morwenna’s hands as Jollen came up to stand behind his wife. “Pray for him. Please . . . pray for him, and for my son.”
“You may trust in it that we will,” answered Jollen. “Our prayers have not ceased since you came to us. Yes, until we hear that all is well with you once more, we will remain in prayer.” He paused and regarded the women with a long, appraising gaze. “But be encouraged,”
he said abruptly. “Your task here, the reason for your coming, has been fulfilled, and the Most High is pleased to give you his blessing. You have been faithful to your hearts, and even now the things which he has promised are coming to pass. Go, so that you may witness them and know that he is ever true to those who follow him.”
Silently the visitors embraced their hosts and stepped from the warm, firelit room into the cool summer night ablaze with myriad stars. They hastened to their beds, too full of private thoughts to speak, but feeling each one closer to the other, conjoined with a strength of love and purpose that held them secure. And though they might be forced to ride through the darkness of evil days ahead, none doubted the light that had been promised at their destination.
“Toli? Are you asleep?” asked Prince Gerin. The boy slid closer to the man’s huddled form beside him.
“No,” replied Toli, rolling over. “What is it?”
“I heard something; someone is coming.”
“I heard it as well. It is the guard again, making sure we are still here and have not vanished through the cracks in the wall.”
“They have been watching us closely this day, and the last—closer than before. Why?”
“They have sprung a trap, I believe. They do not want anything to happen to us until they know if they have caught anything or not.”
“But what do they want?”
“Revenge. Nimrood tried to steal the throne once before, and—”
Before Toli could finish, there came a scrape at the door and it creaked open. Flickering light from a torch thrust in through the crack illumined the room. Toli rolled to his feet. “What is it now?” he asked as the visitor entered the cell.
“Resting comfortably, my pets?”
“Nimrood!” said Toli darkly. “So you have slithered in to taunt your prisoners?”
“Oh my, no! I have come to tell you just how high a price I have set on your worthless heads. The ransom letter has been sent and received. The king has no choice but to comply.”
“What have you done, snake?”
“Merely suggested that I would be willing to free my captives in exchange for a certain object of value to the king.” Nimrood paused and laughed wickedly. “Ha! An object soon to be of little value to the king!”
“What are you talking about?” Toli took a step forward.
“Stay where you are!” Nimrood shouted. Then, in a calmer voice, “That is better. What object?” He shrugged, the torch throwing his black shadow huge against the walls. “I see no point in keeping it from you. His sword—that is the object I will have.”
“The Shining One!” gasped Prince Gerin, who had come to stand at Toli’s side.
“Yes, I believe that is what they call it. A fine weapon I am told, though I have never seen it myself.”
“No!” cried Gerin. “The king cannot give up the Shining One!”
“We shall see,” Nimrood chuckled. “We shall see.”
“The prince is right. The Dragon King will never surrender the Zhaligkeer. It would mean humbling the throne, and he will not do that.”
“Pity,” sniffed Nimrood. “But perhaps he will see it differently. What is a throne worth? The life of his only son and heir, and that of his closest friend as well?”
“I see,” replied Toli coolly. “You would force the choice. But you are forgetting that a king is a king first and a man second. He must do what is best for his realm.”
“In any event, the choice should prove interesting. And we will soon have the opportunity of finding out.”
“How soon?”
“Five days’ time. At midday five days hence you will be led to the temple courtyard and bound. If the king does not bring this enchanted sword of his, you will be killed on the altar of Ariel. Oh, the gods do not require human sacrifices these days, I know. But this time I think the high priest will insist. What will the courageous King Quentin do with the blood of your deaths on his hands? How will he live with himself, I wonder?” Nimrood stepped back a pace and lifted the torch high. “And now you will wonder, too!”
Toli stood as one made of stone, fists clenched at his sides, muscles rigid, and watched the old sorcerer disappear. The cell door closed, the bolt scraped in the lock, and the room was dark and quiet once more. They heard Nimrood chuckling to himself as he stalked back along the corridor to his foul nest.
“Is it true?” asked Gerin when the wizard’s cackling could no longer be heard. His voice trembled as he spoke.
“Yes,” said Toli, wrapping an arm around the boy and pulling him close. “I am afraid it is true. He might have come here to taunt us with it, but I think not. The old vulture wants us to share the poison of fear between us; he hopes that this knowledge will fester in us like a belly wound. But we must not let it. We must not give up hope for a moment.”
“I am afraid, Toli. What will happen to us?”
“I cannot say, young master. It is out of our hands now.”
42
Adull, gray-white dawn broke over Pelgrin, bringing mist from the turbid, muddy waters of the Sipleth River. On the riverbanks, at a place where the ground rose to form the rocky crag of a bluff overlooking an expanse of gray water, stood Ameron Castle. Below the castle the Sipleth flattened and widened as it curled around the bluff in its stony bed, giving Lord Ameronis a natural barrier on two sides; the forest, wild and thick in that part of Mensandor, protected him from the front, an approach made difficult for any attackers by rough terrain and a rising slope.
Theido and Ronsard leaned heavily on the pommels of their saddles and surveyed the fortress in the fitful light of the new day. “It is rockier than I remember it,” said Ronsard, “and better fortified.”
“We will take up our positions there and there,” indicated Theido with a sweep of his arm, “just out of bowshot. A man like Ameronis will be prepared for battle at any time, so we must not delude ourselves that we will catch him napping.”
“There is one thing we may do before they know we are here—send the sappers to scout a location for a mine beneath the walls.”
“Order it at once, and send archers with them in case the castle awakes and offers battle.”
Ronsard swung himself wearily down from his mount and walked back into the fringe of trees where the army waited. He talked to several knights who would act as field commanders and gave them their orders. Theido, too, dismounted and paced along the perimeter of the wood, studying the lay of the land and the situation of the castle upon it. While he looked on, a score of men dressed in rough hide clothing came running out of the forest toward the castle, carrying long, pointed rods in their hands. Behind them came bowmen with longbows and quivers of arrows on their backs.
When they reached the very feet of the towering curtains, the men split off into groups of two or three and began probing the ground and examining the stone all around the outside walls, jamming their rods into the ground, or thrusting them into cracks and seams in the stone at the foot of the outer curtains.
After a while Ronsard came up to stand beside Theido as he watched the activity of the sappers. “It will likely take some time. I suggest we both get some sleep if we can, before Ameronis awakes and discovers that he is besieged. I have already given the orders to the troops.”
Theido rubbed his eyes with his fists and turned to his friend. “My heart is not in this fight, this raising sword against one of our own, even if it is Ameronis. He is still a lord of the realm.”
Ronsard shrugged. “He ceased being a lord of Mensandor when he willfully defied his king. He is a renegade and must be dealt with. Treason is no little thing.”
“I do not disagree. I only wish there was some other way.”
“Every moment he abides within, holding the king’s sword, he holds the king’s heir in his hands.”
“I wonder if he knows that.”
“Would it make a difference to him, do you think?”
“Perhaps not. But I will see that he is informed as soon as pos
sible. That, at least, will make him think twice before he forces this issue further.”
Ronsard frowned. “He will not bend. Ameronis is too proud and has waited too long. The siege will begin, and let us pray that it is a short one. We do not have much time.”
With that the two turned and went back to attend to the establishment of the camp, and to find themselves a place to stretch out for some much-needed sleep.
In Ameron Castle, Lord Ameronis and his friends slept in their high soft beds beneath fine linen in rooms hung with exquisite tapestries embroidered in silk. Ameronis was accustomed to the very best things and styled himself a king, so hot did the flame of ambition burn in him.
Now he slept soundly in his broad bed, dreaming the day was close at hand when he would ascend the Dragon Throne in the Hall of the Dragon King. It was a vision long cherished and nourished in his heart, and soon he would see its fulfillment—now that he possessed the storied Zhaligkeer. The sword itself lay in a locked casket at the foot of his bed; he did not trust even his own armorer to keep it for him, but wanted it near him at all times.
On the wall walk outside the lord’s tower window men ran shouting, their footsteps slapping the stone flagging. Their cries stirred Ameronis from his dreams of kingly glory and he awoke. “Chamberlain!” he cried, and his call was answered at once by a slight, weasel-eyed man with brown, rotten teeth.
“My lord?” the servant said, thrusting his head in through the doorway.
“By Zoar, what is going on? How is a man to sleep with such a clatter? I have guests in my house, and will not have them awakened.”
“Some disturbance outside the castle, my lord. Its nature has not yet been determined.”
“Blazes! I will see to it myself!”With that Ameronis threw back the coverlet and strode out on the bartizan and mounted a flight of steps to the battlements. The lord’s chamber was in the foremost west tower and overlooked the gate and the approach from the forest.