Книга - The Ruby Knight
The Ruby Knight
David Eddings
Book two of the classic ELENIUM trilogy. The quest for the jewel of life continues.Time is running out for the poisoned Queen Ehlana. If she is to be saved Sparhawk must find the only cure – a powerful artefact called the Bhelliom – before it’s too late.But finding the rose-shaped sapphire is no simple task. No one has set eyes upon it since it was lost in the heat of a legendary battle.To make matters worse, Sparhawk and his allies are not the only party questing to find the jewel.
Voyager
David Eddings
The Ruby Knight
The Elenium
Book Two
Copyright
HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk (http://harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk/)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1990
Copyright © David Eddings 1990.
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover images © Shutterstock.com
David Eddings asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007127825
EbookEdition © JUNE 2010 ISBN 9780007375073
Version: 20-03-2015
Dedication
For Young Mike ‘put it in the car’
and for Peggy ‘what happened to my balloons’
Contents
Title Page (#ue49e88ba-301a-5a57-b293-2fd90b20d1d4)
Copyright
Dedication (#u6f15d265-2d14-563a-8294-21daa51b43e5)
Map
Prologue
It was in the twenty-fifth century when the hordes of…
Part One: Lake Randera
Chapter 1
It was well after midnight, and a dense grey fog…
Chapter 2
The fog was even thicker when they gathered in the…
Chapter 3
Sephrenia was tending a large, ugly-looking bruise on Berit’s upper…
Chapter 4
The castle of Baron Alstrom was situated on a rocky…
Chapter 5
The booming crash of boulders slamming against the walls of…
Chapter 6
‘We’ll need to go to the highest point in your…
Chapter 7
The toll bridge was narrow and in some disrepair. A…
Chapter 8
The ancient battlefield at Lake Randera in north central Lamorkand…
Chapter 9
Ulath walked over to where Tynian sat on the wet…
Part Two: Ghasek
Chapter 10
The rain was slackening, and a fitful breeze was coming…
Chapter 11
They slept late the following morning. Sparhawk awoke before daybreak,…
Chapter 12
Their mood was very bleak the following morning as they…
Chapter 13
Because the road they proposed to follow was reputed to…
Chapter 14
The corridor into which the surly gate-guard led them was…
Chapter 15
‘How did she get out of that tower?’ Sparhawk asked…
Chapter 16
They removed their armour and put on the plain workmen’s…
Chapter 17
‘I am eternally in your debt, my friends,’ Ghasek said…
Part Three: The Troll Cave
Chapter 18
‘Was that really Azash?’ Kalten asked in awe.
Chapter 19
Sparhawk sat in the room he shared with Kalten, poring…
Chapter 20
They dragged the husk of the Seeker off the road…
Chapter 21
Promptly at noon, King Soros of Pelosia called a halt.
Chapter 22
It seemed that it took them two more weeks to…
Chapter 23
It was that same peculiarly drowsy melody Flute had played…
Chapter 24
They rode out at first light, circled through the forest…
Chapter 25
The cave had the musty smell of long-damp earth and…
About the Author
Author's Note
Other Books by David Eddings
About the Publisher
Map
Prologue
A history of the House of Sparhawk
From the Chronicles of the Pandion Brotherhood
It was in the twenty-fifth century when the hordes of Otha of Zemoch invaded the Elene kingdoms of western Eosia and swept all before them with fire and sword in their march to the west. Otha appeared invincible until his forces were met on the great, smoke-shrouded battlefield at Lake Randera by the combined armies of the western kingdoms and the concerted might of the Knights of the Church. The battle there in central Lamorkand is said to have raged for weeks before the invading Zemochs were finally pushed back and turned to flee for their own borders.
The victory of the Elenes was thus complete, but fully half of the Church Knights lay slain upon the battlefield, and the armies of the Elene kings numbered their dead by the scores of thousands. When the victorious but exhausted survivors returned to their homes, they faced an even grimmer foe – the famine which is one of the common results of war.
The famine in Eosia endured for generations, threatening at times to depopulate the continent. Inevitably, social organization began to break down, and political chaos reigned in the Elene kingdoms. Rogue barons paid only lip service to their oaths of fealty to their kings. Private disputes often resulted in ugly little wars, and open banditry was common. These conditions generally prevailed until well into the early years of the twenty-seventh century.
It was in this time of turmoil that an acolyte appeared at the gates of our Mother-house at Demos expressing an earnest desire to become a member of our order. As his training began, our Preceptor soon realized that this young postulant, Sparhawk by name, was no ordinary man. He quickly outstripped his fellow novices and even mastered seasoned Pandions on the practice field. It was not merely his physical prowess, however, which so distinguished him, since his intellectual gifts were also towering. His aptitude for the secrets of Styricum was the delight of his tutor in those arts, and the aged Styric instructor guided his pupil into areas of magic far beyond those customarily taught the Pandion Knights. The Patriarch of Demos was no less enthusiastic about the intellect of this novice, and by the time Sir Sparhawk had won his spurs, he was also skilled in the intricacies of philosophy and theological disputation.
It was at about the time that Sir Sparhawk was knighted that the youthful King Antor ascended the Elenian throne in Cimmura, and the lives of the two young men soon became intricately intertwined. King Antor was a rash, even foolhardy youth, and an outbreak of banditry along his northern border enraged him to the point where he threw caution to the winds and mounted a punitive expedition into that portion of his kingdom with a woefully inadequate force. When word of this reached Demos, the Preceptor of the Pandion Knights dispatched a relief column to rush north to the King’s aid, and among the knights in that column was Sir Sparhawk.
King Antor was soon far out of his depth. Although no one can dispute his personal bravery, his lack of experience often led him into serious tactical and strategic blunders. Since he was oblivious to the alliances between the various bandit barons of the northern marches, he oft-times led his men against one of them without giving thought to the fact that another was very likely to come to the aid of his ally. Thus, King Antor’s already seriously outnumbered force was steadily whittled down by surprise attacks directed at the rear of his army. The barons of the north gleefully outflanked him again and again as he charged blindly forward, and they steadily decimated his reserves.
And so it stood when Sparhawk and the other Pandion Knights arrived in the war-zone. The armies which had been so sorely pressing the young king were largely untrained, a rabble recruited from local robber-bands. The barons who led them fell back to take stock of the situation. Although their numbers were still overwhelming, the reputed skill of the Pandions on the battlefield was something to be taken into account. A few of their number, made rash by their previous successes, urged their allies to press the attack, but older and wiser men advised caution. It is certain that a fair number of the barons, young and old alike, saw the way to the throne of Elenia opening before them. Should King Antor fall in battle, his crown might easily become the property of any man strong enough to wrest it from his companions.
The barons’ first attacks on the combined forces of the Pandions and King Antor’s troops were tentative, more in the nature of tests of the strength and resolve of the Church Knights and their allies. When it became evident that the response was in large measure defensive, these assaults grew more serious, and ultimately there was a pitched battle not far from the Pelosian border. As soon as it became evident that the barons were committing their full forces to the struggle, the Pandions reacted with their customary savagery. The defensive posture they had adopted during the first probing attacks had been clearly a ruse designed to lure the barons into an all-out confrontation.
The battle raged for the better part of a spring day, and late in the afternoon when bright sunlight flooded the field, King Antor became separated from the troops of his household guard. He found himself horseless and hard-pressed, and he resolved to sell his life as dearly as possible. It was at this point that Sir Sparhawk entered the fray. He quickly cut his way through to the king’s side, and, in the fashion as old as the history of warfare, the two stood back to back, holding off their foes. The combination of Antor’s headstrong bravery and Sparhawk’s skill was convincing enough to hold their enemies at bay until, by mischance, Sparhawk’s sword was broken. With triumphant shouts the force encircling the two rushed in for the kill. This proved to be a fatal error.
Snatching a short, broad-bladed battle-spear from one of the fallen, Sparhawk decimated the ranks of the charging troops. The culmination of the struggle came when the swarthy-faced baron who had been leading the attack rushed in to slay the sorely wounded Antor and died with Sparhawk’s spear in his vitals. The baron’s fall demoralized his men. They fell back and ultimately fled the scene.
Antor’s wounds were grave, and Sparhawk’s only slightly less so. Exhausted, the two sank side by side to the ground as evening settled over the field. It is impossible to reconstruct the conversation of the two wounded men there on that bloody field during the early hours of the night, since in later years neither would reveal what had passed between them. What is known, however, is that at some point during their discussions, they traded weapons. Antor bestowed the royal sword of Elenia upon Sir Sparhawk and took in exchange the battle-spear with which Sir Sparhawk had saved his life. The king was to cherish that rude weapon to the end of his days.
It was nearly midnight when the two injured men saw a torch approaching through the darkness, and, not knowing if the torch-bearer was friend or foe, they struggled to their feet and wearily prepared to defend themselves. The one who approached, however, was not an Elene, but was rather a white-robed and hooded Styric woman. Wordlessly, she tended their wounds. Then she spoke to them briefly in a lilting voice and gave them the pair of rings which have come to symbolize their lifelong friendship. Tradition has it that the oval stones set in the rings were as pale as diamond when the two received them, but that their mingled blood permanently stained the stones, and they appear to this day to be deep red rubies. Once she had done this, the mysterious Styric woman turned without a further word and walked off into the night, her white robe glowing in the moonlight.
As misty dawn lightened the field, the troops of Antor’s household guard and a number of Sparhawk’s fellow Pandions found the two wounded men at last, and they were borne on litters to our Mother-house here at Demos. Their recovery consumed months, and by the time they were well enough to travel, they were fast friends. They went by easy stages to Antor’s capital at Cimmura, and there the king made a startling announcement. He declared that henceforth the Pandion Sparhawk would be his champion and that so long as both their families survived, the descendants of Sparhawk would serve the rulers of Elenia in that capacity.
As inevitably happens, the king’s court at Cimmura was filled with intrigues. The various factions, however, were taken aback somewhat by the appearance at court of the grim-faced Sir Sparhawk. After a few tentative attempts to enlist his support for this or that faction had been sternly rebuffed, the courtiers uncomfortably concluded that the King’s Champion was incorruptible. Moreover, the friendship between the king and Sparhawk made the Pandion Knight the King’s confidant and closest adviser. Since Sparhawk, as we have pointed out, had a towering intellect, he easily saw through the oft-times petty scheming of the various officials at court and brought them to the attention of his less-gifted friend. Within a year, the court of King Antor had become remarkably free of corruption as Sparhawk imposed his own rigid morality upon those around him.
Of even greater concern to the various political factions in Elenia was the growing influence of the Pandion order in the kingdom. King Antor was profoundly grateful, not only to Sir Sparhawk, but also to his champion’s brother knights. The King and his friend journeyed often to Demos to confer with the Preceptor of our order, and major policy decisions were more often made in the Mother-house than in the chambers of the royal council where courtiers had customarily dictated royal policy with an eye more to their own advantage than to the good of the kingdom.
Sir Sparhawk married in middle life, and his wife soon bore him a son. At Antor’s request, the child was also named Sparhawk, a tradition which, once established, has continued unbroken in the family to this very day. When he had reached a suitable age, the younger Sparhawk entered the Pandion Mother-house to begin the training for the position he would one day fill. To their fathers’ delight, young Sparhawk and Antor’s son, the crown prince, had become close friends during their boyhood, and the relationship between king and champion was thus ensured to continue unbroken.
When Antor, filled with years and honours, lay on his death-bed, his last act was to bestow his ruby ring and the short, broad-bladed spear upon his son, and at the same time the elder Sparhawk passed his ring and the royal sword on to his son. This tradition has also persisted down to this very day.
It is widely believed among the common people of Elenia that for so long as the friendship between the royal family and the house of Sparhawk persists, the kingdom will prosper and that no evil can befall it. Like many superstitions, this one is to some degree based in fact. The descendants of Sparhawk have always been gifted men, and in addition to their Pandion training, they have also received special instruction in statecraft and diplomacy, the better to prepare them for their hereditary task.
Of late, however, there has been a rift between the royal family and the house of Sparhawk. The weak King Aldreas, dominated by his ambitious sister and the Primate of Cimmura, rather coldly relegated the current Sparhawk to the lesser, even demeaning position as caretaker of the person of Princess Ehlana – possibly in the hope that the champion would be so offended that he would renounce his hereditary position. Sir Sparhawk, however, took his duties seriously and educated the child who would one day be queen in those areas which would prepare her to rule.
When it became obvious that Sparhawk would not willingly give up his post, Aldreas, at the instigation of his sister and Primate Annias, sent the Knight Sparhawk into exile in the Kingdom of Rendor.
Upon the death of King Aldreas, his daughter Ehlana ascended the throne as queen. Hearing this news, Sparhawk returned to Cimmura only to find that his young queen was gravely ill and that her life was being sustained only by a spell cast by the Styric sorceress Sephrenia – a spell, however, which could keep Ehlana alive for no more than a year.
In consultation, the Preceptors of the four militant orders of Church Knights decided that the four orders must work in concert to discover a cure for the queen’s illness and to restore her to health and power, lest the corrupt Primate Annias achieve his goal, the throne of the Archprelacy in the basilica of Chyrellos. To that end, the Preceptors of the Cyrinics, the Alciones and the Genidians dispatched their own champions to join with the Pandion Sparhawk and his boyhood friend Kalten to seek out the cure which would not only restore Queen Ehlana, but also her kingdom, which suffers in her absence with a grave malaise.
Thus it stands. The restoration of the queen’s health is vital not only to the Kingdom of Elenia, but to the other Elene kingdoms as well, for should the venial Primate Annias gain the Archprelate’s throne, we may be sure that the Elene kingdoms will be wracked by turmoil; and our ancient foe, Otha of Zemoch, stands poised on our eastern frontier ready to exploit any divisions or chaos. The cure of the queen who is so near to death, however, may daunt even her champion and his stalwart companions. Pray for their success, my brothers, for should they fail, the whole of the Eosian continent will inevitably fall into general warfare, and civilization as we know it will cease to exist.
PART ONE
Lake Randera
Chapter 1
It was well after midnight, and a dense grey fog had crept in off the Cimmura River to mingle with the pervading wood-smoke from a thousand chimneys to blur the nearly deserted streets of the city. The Pandion Knight, Sir Sparhawk, nonetheless moved cautiously, keeping to the shadows whenever possible. The streets glistened with moisture, and pale, rainbow-coloured haloes surrounded the torches trying feebly with their guttering light to illuminate streets into which no sensible man ventured at this hour. The houses lining the street Sparhawk was following were hardly more than looming black shadows. Sparhawk moved on, his ears even more than his eyes wary, for in this murky night sound was far more important than sight to warn of approaching danger.
This was a bad time to be out. By day, Cimmura was no more dangerous than any other city. By night, it was a jungle where the strong fed upon the weak and unwary. Sparhawk, however, was neither of those. Beneath his plain traveller’s cloak he wore chain-mail, and a heavy sword hung at his side. In addition, he carried a short, broad-bladed battle-spear loosely in one hand. He was trained, moreover, in levels of violence no footpad could match, and a seething anger inflamed him at this point. Bleakly, the broken-nosed man almost hoped that some fool might try an attack. When provoked, Sparhawk was not the most reasonable of men, and he had been provoked of late.
He was also, however, aware of the urgency of what he was about. Much as he might have taken some satisfaction in the rush and cut and slash of a meeting with unknown and unimportant assailants, he had responsibilities. His pale young queen hovered near death, and she silently demanded absolute fidelity from her champion. He would not betray her, and to die in some muddy gutter as a result of a meaningless encounter would not serve the queen he was oath-bound to protect. And so it was that he moved cautiously, his feet more silent than those of any paid assassin.
Somewhere ahead he saw the bobbing of hazy-looking torches and heard the measured tread of several men marching in unison. He muttered an oath and ducked up a smelly alley.
A half-dozen men marched by, their red tunics bedewed by the fog and with long pikes leaning slantwise over their shoulders. ‘It’s that place in Rose Street,’ their officer was saying arrogantly, ‘where the Pandions try to hide their ungodly subterfuge. They know we’re watching, of course, but our presence restricts their movements and leaves His Grace, the Primate, free from their interference.’
‘We know the reasons, Lieutenant,’ a bored-sounding corporal said. ‘We’ve been doing this for over a year now.’
‘Oh.’ The self-important young lieutenant sounded a bit crestfallen. ‘I just wanted to be sure that we all understood, that’s all.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the corporal said tonelessly.
‘Wait here, men,’ the lieutenant said, trying to make his boyish voice sound gruff. ‘I’ll look on ahead.’ He marched on up the street, his heels smashing noisily on the fog-wet cobblestones.
‘What a jackass,’ the corporal muttered to his companions.
‘Grow up, corporal,’ an old, grey-haired veteran said. ‘We take the pay, so we obey their orders and keep our opinions to ourselves. Just do your job and leave opinions to the officers.’
The corporal grunted sourly. ‘I was at court yesterday,’ he said. ‘Primate Annias had summoned that young puppy up there, and the fool absolutely had to have an escort. Would you believe he was actually fawning all over the bastard Lycheas?’
‘That’s what lieutenants do best,’ the veteran shrugged. ‘They’re born boot-lickers, and the bastard is the Prince Regent, after all. I’m not sure if that makes his boots taste any better, but the lieutenant’s probably got calluses on his tongue by now.’
The corporal laughed. ‘That’s God’s truth, but wouldn’t he be surprised if the queen recovered and he found out that he’d eaten all that boot polish for nothing?’
‘You’d better hope she doesn’t, corporal,’ one of the other men said. ‘If she wakes up and takes control of her own treasury again, Annias won’t have the money to pay us next month.’
‘He can always dip into the church coffers.’
‘Not without giving an accounting, he can’t. The Hierocracy in Chyrellos squeezes every penny of church money until it squeaks.’
‘All right, you men,’ the young officer called out of the fog, ‘the Pandion inn is just up ahead. I’ve relieved the soldiers who were on watch, so we’d better go there and take up our positions.’
‘You heard him,’ the corporal said. ‘Move out.’ The church soldiers marched off into the fog.
Sparhawk smiled briefly in the darkness. It was seldom that he had the opportunity to hear the casual conversations of the enemy. He had long suspected that the soldiers of the Primate of Cimmura were motivated more by greed than from any sense of loyalty or piety. He stepped out of the alley and then jumped soundlessly back as he heard other footsteps coming up the street. For some reason the usually empty night-time streets of Cimmura were awash with people. The footsteps were loud, so whoever it was out there was not trying to sneak up on anybody. Sparhawk shifted the short-handled spear in his hands. Then he saw the fellow looming out of the fog. The man wore a dark-coloured smock, and he had a large basket balanced on one shoulder. He appeared to be a workman of some kind, but there was no way to be sure of that. Sparhawk remained silent and let him pass. He waited until the sound of the footsteps was gone, then he stepped into the street again. He walked carefully, his soft boots making little sound on the wet cobblestones, and he kept his grey cloak wrapped tightly about him to muffle any clinking of his chain-mail.
He crossed an empty street to avoid the flickering yellow lamplight coming through the open door of a tavern where voices were raised in bawdy song. He shifted the spear to his left hand and pulled the hood of his cloak even farther forward to shadow his face as he passed through the mist-shrouded light.
He stopped, his eyes and ears carefully searching the foggy street ahead of him. His general direction was towards the east gate, but he had no particular fanaticism about that. People who walk in straight lines are predictable, and predictable people get caught. It was absolutely vital that he leave the city unrecognized and unseen by any of Annias’s men, even if it took him all night. When he was satisfied that the street was empty, he moved on, keeping to the deepest shadows. At a corner beneath a misty orange torch, a ragged beggar sat against a wall. He had a bandage across his eyes and a number of authentic-looking sores on his arms and legs. Sparhawk knew that this was not a profitable time for begging, so the fellow was probably up to something else. Then a slate from a rooftop crashed into the street not far from where Sparhawk stood.
‘Charity!’ the beggar called in a despairing voice, although Sparhawk’s soft-shod feet had made no sound. ‘Good evening, neighbour,’ the big knight said softly, crossing the street. He dropped a couple of coins into the begging bowl.
‘Thank you, My Lord. God bless you.’
‘You’re not supposed to be able to see me, neighbour,’ Sparhawk reminded him. ‘You don’t know if I’m a Milord or a commoner.’
‘It’s late,’ the beggar apologized, ‘and I’m a little sleepy. Sometimes I forget.’
‘Very sloppy,’ Sparhawk chided. ‘Pay attention to business. Oh, by the way, give my best to Platime.’ Platime was an enormously fat man who ruled the underside of Cimmura with an iron fist.
The beggar lifted the bandage from his eyes and stared at Sparhawk, his eyes widening in recognition.
‘And tell your friend up on that roof not to get excited,’ Sparhawk added. ‘You might tell him, though, to watch where he puts his feet. That last slate he kicked loose almost brained me.’
‘He’s a new man.’ The beggar sniffed. ‘He still has a lot to learn about burglary.’
‘That he does,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Maybe you can help me, neighbour. Talen was telling me about a tavern up against the east wall of the city. It’s supposed to have a garret that the tavern-keeper rents out from time to time. Do you happen to know where it’s located?’
‘It’s in Goat Lane, Sir Sparhawk. It’s got a sign that’s supposed to look like a bunch of grapes. You can’t miss it.’ The beggar squinted. ‘Where’s Talen been lately? I haven’t seen him for quite a while.’
‘His father’s sort of taken him in hand.’
‘I didn’t know Talen even had a father. That boy will go far if he doesn’t get himself hanged. He’s just about the best thief in Cimmura.’
‘I know,’ Sparhawk said. ‘He’s picked my pocket a few times.’ He dropped a couple more coins in the begging bowl. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the fact that you saw me tonight more or less to yourself, neighbour.’
‘I never saw you, Sir Sparhawk.’ The beggar grinned.
‘And I never saw you and your friend on the roof, either.’
‘Something for everybody then.’
‘My feelings exactly. Good luck in your enterprise.’
‘And the same to you in yours.’
Sparhawk smiled and moved off down the street. His brief exposure to the seamier side of Cimmuran society had paid off again. Though not exactly a friend, Platime and the shadowy world he controlled could be very helpful. Sparhawk cut over one street to make sure that, should the clumsy burglar on the roof be surprised in the course of his activities, the inevitable hue and cry would not bring the watch running down the same street he was traversing.
As they always did when he was alone, Sparhawk’s thoughts reverted to his queen. He had known Ehlana since she had been a little girl, though he had not seen her during the ten years he had been in exile in Rendor. The memory of her seated on her throne encased in diamond-hard crystal wrenched at his heart. He began to regret the fact that he had not taken advantage of the opportunity to kill the Primate Annias earlier tonight. A poisoner is always contemptible, but the man who had poisoned Sparhawk’s queen had placed himself in mortal danger, since Sparhawk was not one to let old scores simmer too long.
Then he heard furtive footsteps behind him in the fog, and he stepped into a recessed doorway and stood very still.
There were two of them, and they wore nondescript clothing. ‘Can you still see him?’ one of them whispered to the other.
‘No. This fog’s getting thicker. He’s just ahead of us, though.’
‘Are you sure he’s a Pandion?’
‘When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you’ll learn to recognize them. It’s the way they walk and the way they hold their shoulders. He’s a Pandion all right.’
‘What’s he doing out in the street at this time of night?’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out. The Primate wants reports on all their movements.’
‘The notion of trying to sneak up behind a Pandion on a foggy night makes me just a little nervous. They all use magic, and they can feel you coming. I’d rather not get his sword in my guts. Did you ever see his face?’
‘No. He had his hood up, so his face was in shadow.’
The two of them crept on up the street, unaware of the fact that their lives had hung in the balance for a moment. Had either of them seen Sparhawk’s face, they would have died on the spot. Sparhawk was a very pragmatic man about things like that. He waited until he could no longer hear their footfalls. Then he retraced his steps to an intersection and went up a side street.
The tavern was empty except for the owner, who dozed with his feet up on a table and with his hands clasped over his paunch. He was a stout, unshaven man wearing a dirty smock.
‘Good evening, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said quietly as he entered.
The tavern-keeper opened one eye. ‘Morning is more like it,’ he grunted.
Sparhawk looked around. The tavern was a fairly typical working-man’s place with a low, beamed ceiling smudged with smoke and with a utilitarian counter across the back. The chairs and benches were scarred, and the sawdust on the floor had not been swept up and replaced for months. ‘It seems to be a slow night,’ he noted in his quiet voice.
‘It’s always slow this late, friend. What’s your pleasure?’
‘Arcian red – if you’ve got any.’
‘Arcium’s hip-deep in red grapes. Nobody ever runs out of Arcian red.’ With a weary sigh the tavern-keeper heaved himself to his feet and poured Sparhawk a goblet of red wine. The goblet, Sparhawk saw, was none too clean. ‘You’re out late, friend,’ the fellow observed, handing the big knight the sticky goblet.
‘Business,’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘A friend of mine said you have a garret on the top floor of the house.’
The tavern-keeper’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You don’t look like the sort of fellow who’d have a burning interest in garrets,’ he said. ‘Does this friend of yours have a name?’
‘Not one he cares to have generally known,’ Sparhawk replied, taking a sip of his wine. It was a distinctly inferior vintage.
‘Friend, I don’t know you, and you have a sort of official look about you. Why don’t you just finish your wine and leave? – that’s unless you can come up with a name I can recognize.’
‘This friend of mine works for a man named Platime. You may have heard the name.’
The tavern-keeper’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Platime must be branching out. I didn’t know that he had anything to do with the gentry – except to steal from them.’
‘He owed me a favour.’ Sparhawk shrugged.
The unshaven man still looked dubious. ‘Anybody could throw Platime’s name around,’ he said.
‘Neighbour,’ Sparhawk said flatly, setting his wineglass down, ‘this is starting to get tedious. Either we go up to your garret or I go out looking for the watch. I’m sure they’ll be very interested in your little enterprise.’
The tavern-keeper’s face grew sullen. ‘It’ll cost you a silver half-crown.’
‘All right.’
‘You’re not even going to argue?’
‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. We can haggle about the price next time.’
‘You seem to be in quite a rush to get out of town, friend. You haven’t killed anybody with that spear tonight, have you?’
‘Not yet.’ Sparhawk’s voice was flat.
The tavern-keeper swallowed hard. ‘Let me see your money.’
‘Of course, neighbour. And then let’s go upstairs and have a look at this garret.’
‘We’ll have to be careful. With this fog, you won’t be able to see the guards coming along the parapet.’
‘I can take care of that.’
‘No killing. I’ve got a nice little sideline here. If somebody kills one of the guards, I’ll have to close it down.’
‘Don’t worry, neighbour. I don’t think I’ll have to kill anybody tonight.’
The garret was dusty and appeared unused. The tavern-keeper carefully opened the gabled window and peered out into the fog. Behind him, Sparhawk whispered in Styric and released the spell. He could feel the fellow out there. ‘Careful,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s a guard coming along the parapet.’
‘I don’t see anybody.’
‘I heard him,’ Sparhawk replied. There was no point in going into extended explanations.
‘You’ve got sharp ears, friend.’
The two of them waited in the darkness as the sleepy guard strolled along the parapet and disappeared in the fog.
‘Give me a hand with this,’ the tavern-keeper said, stooping to lift one end of a heavy timber up onto the window-sill. ‘We slide it across to the parapet, and then you go on over. When you get there, I’ll throw you the end of this rope. It’s anchored here, so you’ll be able to slide down the outside of the wall.’
‘Right,’ Sparhawk said. They slid the timber across the intervening space. ‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said. He straddled the timber and inched his way across to the parapet. He stood up and caught the coil of rope that came out of the misty darkness. He dropped it over the wall and swung out on it. A few moments later, he was on the ground. The rope slithered up into the fog, and then he heard the sound of the timber sliding back into the garret. ‘Very neat,’ Sparhawk muttered, walking carefully away from the city wall. ‘I’ll have to remember that place.’
The fog made it a bit difficult to get his bearings, but by keeping the looming shadow of the city wall to his left, he could more or less determine his location. He set his feet down carefully. The night was quiet, and the sound of a stick breaking would be very loud.
Then he stopped. Sparhawk’s instincts were very good, and he knew that he was being watched. He drew his sword slowly to avoid the tell-tale sound it made as it slid out of its sheath. With the sword in one hand and the battle-spear in the other, he stood peering out into the fog.
And then he saw it. It was only a faint glow in the darkness, so faint that most people would not have noticed it. The glow drew closer, and he saw that it had a slight greenish cast to it. Sparhawk stood perfectly still and waited.
There was a figure out there in the fog, indistinct perhaps, but a figure nonetheless. It appeared to be robed and hooded in black, and that faint glow seemed to be coming out from under the hood. The figure was quite tall and appeared to be impossibly thin, almost skeletal. For some reason it chilled Sparhawk. He muttered in Styric, moving his fingers on the hilt of the sword and the shaft of the spear. Then he raised the spear and released the spell with its point. The spell was a relatively simple one, its purpose being only to identify the emaciated figure out in the fog. Sparhawk almost gasped when he felt the waves of pure evil emanating from the shadowy form. Whatever it was, it was certainly not human.
After a moment, a ghostly metallic chuckle came out of the night. The figure turned and moved away. Its walk was jerky as if its knees were put together backwards. Sparhawk stayed where he was until that sense of evil faded away. Whatever the thing was, it was gone now. ‘I wonder if that was another of Martel’s little surprises,’ Sparhawk muttered under his breath. Martel was a renegade Pandion Knight who had been expelled from the order. He and Sparhawk had once been friends, but no more. Martel now worked for Primate Annias, and it had been he who had provided the poison with which Annias had very nearly killed the queen.
Sparhawk continued slowly and silently now, his sword and the spear still in his hands. Finally he saw the torches which marked the closed east gate of the city, and he took his bearings from them.
Then he heard a faint snuffling sound behind him, much like the sound a tracking dog would make. He turned, his weapons ready. Again he heard that metallic chuckle. He amended that in his mind. It was not so much a chuckle as it was a sort of stridulation, a chittering sound. Again he felt that sense of overpowering evil, which once again faded away.
Sparhawk angled slightly out from the city wall and the filmy light of those two torches at the gate. After about a quarter of an hour, he saw the square, looming shape of the Pandion chapterhouse just ahead.
He dropped into a prone position on the fog-wet turf and cast the searching spell again. He released it and waited.
Nothing.
He rose, sheathed his sword and moved cautiously across the intervening field. The castle-like chapterhouse was, as always, being watched. Church soldiers, dressed as workmen, were encamped not far from the front gate with piles of the cobblestones they were ostensibly laying heaped around their tents. Sparhawk, however, went around to the back wall and carefully picked his way through the deep, stake-studded fosse surrounding the structure.
The rope down which he had clambered when he had left the house was still dangling behind a concealing bush. He shook it a few times to be certain the grappling hook at its upper end was still firmly attached. Then he tucked the war-spear under his sword-belt. He grasped the rope and pulled down hard.
Above him, he could hear the points of the hook grating into the stones of the battlement. He started to climb up, hand over hand.
‘Who’s there?’ The voice came sharply out of the fog overhead. It was a youthful voice, and familiar.
Sparhawk swore under his breath. Then he felt a tugging on the rope he was climbing. ‘Leave it alone, Berit,’ he grated, straining to pull himself up.
‘Sir Sparhawk?’ the novice said in a startled voice.
‘Don’t jerk on the rope,’ Sparhawk ordered. ‘Those stakes in the ditch are very sharp.’
‘Let me help you up.’
‘I can manage. Just don’t displace that hook.’ He grunted as he heaved himself up over the battlement, and Berit caught his arm to help him. Sparhawk was sweating from his exertions. Climbing a rope when one is wearing chain-mail can be very strenuous.
Berit was a novice Pandion who showed much promise. He was a tall, raw-boned young man who was wearing a mail-shirt and a plain, utilitarian cloak. He carried a heavy bladed battle-axe in one hand. He was a polite young fellow, so he did not ask any questions, although his face was filled with curiosity. Sparhawk looked down into the courtyard of the chapterhouse. By the light of a flickering torch, he saw Kurik and Kalten. Both of them were armed, and sounds from the stable indicated that someone was saddling horses for them. ‘Don’t go away,’ he called down to them.
‘What are you doing up there, Sparhawk?’ Kalten sounded surprised.
‘I thought I’d take up burglary as a sideline,’ Sparhawk replied drily. ‘Stay there. I’ll be right down. Come along, Berit.’
‘I’m supposed to be on watch, Sir Sparhawk.’
‘We’ll send somebody up to replace you. This is important.’ Sparhawk led the way along the parapet to the steep stone stairs that led down into the courtyard.
‘Where have you been, Sparhawk?’ Kurik demanded angrily when the two had descended. Sparhawk’s squire wore his usual black leather vest, and his heavily muscled arms and shoulders gleamed in the orange torchlight that illuminated the courtyard. He spoke in the hushed voice men use when talking at night.
‘I had to go to the cathedral,’ Sparhawk replied quietly.
‘Are you having religious experiences?’ Kalten asked, sounding amused. The big blond knight, Sparhawk’s boyhood friend, was dressed in chain and had a heavy broadsword belted at his waist.
‘Not exactly,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Tanis is dead. His ghost came to me at about midnight.’
‘Tanis?’ Kalten’s voice was shocked.
‘He was one of the twelve knights who were with Sephrenia when she encased Ehlana in crystal. His ghost told me to go to the crypt under the cathedral before it went to give up its sword to Sephrenia.’
‘And you went? At night?’
‘The matter was of a certain urgency.’
‘What did you do there? Violate a few tombs? Is that how you got the spear?’
‘Hardly,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘King Aldreas gave it to me.’
‘Aldreas!’
‘His ghost anyway. His missing ring is hidden in the socket.’ Sparhawk looked curiously at his two friends. ‘Where were you going just now?’
‘Out to look for you.’ Kurik shrugged.
‘How did you know I’d left the chapterhouse?’
‘I checked in on you a few times,’ Kurik said. ‘I thought you knew I usually did that.’
‘Every night?’
‘Three times at least,’ Kurik confirmed. ‘I’ve been doing that every night since you were a boy – except for the years you were in Rendor. The first time tonight, you were talking in your sleep. The second time – just after midnight – you were gone. I looked around, and when I couldn’t find you, I woke up Kalten.’
‘I think we’d better go wake the others,’ Sparhawk said bleakly. ‘Aldreas told me some things, and we’ve got some decisions to make.’
‘Bad news?’ Kalten asked.
‘It’s hard to say. Berit, tell those novices in the stable to go and replace you on the parapet. This might take a while.’
They gathered in Preceptor Vanion’s brown-carpeted study in the south tower. Sparhawk, Berit, Kalten and Kurik were there, of course. Sir Bevier, a Cyrinic Knight, was there as well, as were Sir Tynian, an Alcione Knight, and Sir Ulath, a huge Genidian Knight. The three were the champions of their orders, and they had joined with Sparhawk and Kalten when the Preceptors of the four orders had decided that the restoration of Queen Ehlana was a matter that concerned them all. Sephrenia, the small, dark-haired Styric woman who instructed the Pandions in the secrets of Styricum, sat by the fire with the little girl they called Flute at her side. The boy, Talen, sat by the window rubbing at his eyes with his fist. Talen was a sound sleeper, and he did not like being awakened. Vanion sat at the table he used for a writing desk. His study was a pleasant room, low, dark beamed, and with a deep fireplace that Sparhawk had never seen unlighted. As always, Sephrenia’s simmering tea-kettle stood on the hob.
Vanion did not look well. Roused from his bed in the middle of the night, the Preceptor of the Pandion Order, a grim, careworn knight who was probably even older than he looked, wore an uncharacteristic Styric robe of plain white homespun cloth. Sparhawk had watched this peculiar change in Vanion over the years. Caught at times unawares, the Preceptor, one of the stalwarts of the Church, sometimes seemed almost half Styric. As an Elene and a Knight of the Church, it was Sparhawk’s duty to reveal his observations to the church authorities. He chose, however, not to. His loyalty to the Church was one thing – a commandment from God. His loyalty to Vanion, however, was deeper, more personal.
The Preceptor was grey-faced, and his hands trembled slightly. The burden of the swords of the three dead knights he had compelled Sephrenia to relinquish to him was obviously weighing him down more than he would have admitted. The spell Sephrenia had cast in the throne-room and which sustained the queen had involved the concerted assistance of twelve Pandion Knights. One by one those knights would die, and their ghosts would deliver their swords to Sephrenia. When the last had died, she would follow them into the House of the Dead. Earlier that evening, Vanion had compelled her to give those swords to him. It was not the weight of the swords alone which made them such a burden. There were other things that went with them, things about which Sparhawk could not even begin to guess. Vanion had been adamant about taking the swords. He had given a few vague reasons for his action, but Sparhawk privately suspected that the Preceptor’s main reason had been to spare Sephrenia as much as possible. Despite all the strictures forbidding such things, Sparhawk believed that Vanion loved the dear, small woman who had instructed all Pandions for generations in the secrets of Styricum. All Pandion Knights loved and revered Sephrenia. In Vanion’s case, however, Sparhawk surmised that love and reverence went perhaps a step further. Sephrenia also, he had noticed, seemed to have a special affection for the Preceptor that went somewhat beyond the love of a teacher for her pupil. This was also something that a Church Knight should reveal to the Hierocracy in Chyrellos. Again, Sparhawk chose not to.
‘Why are we gathering at this unseemly hour?’ Vanion asked wearily.
‘Do you want to tell him?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia.
The white-robed woman sighed and unwrapped the long, cloth-bound object she held to reveal another ceremonial Pandion sword. ‘Sir Tanis has gone into the House of the Dead,’ she told Vanion sadly.
‘Tanis?’ Vanion’s voice was stricken. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Just recently, I gather,’ she replied.
‘Is that why we’re here tonight?’ Vanion asked Sparhawk.
‘Not entirely. Before he went to deliver his sword to Sephrenia, Tanis visited me – or at least his ghost did. He told me that someone in the royal crypt wanted to see me. I went to the cathedral and I was confronted by the ghost of Aldreas. He told me a number of things and then gave me this.’ He twisted the shaft of the spear out of its socket and shook the ruby ring out of its place of concealment.
‘So that’s where Aldreas hid it,’ Vanion said. ‘Maybe he was wiser than we thought. You said he told you some things. Such as what?’
‘That he had been poisoned,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Probably the same poison they gave Ehlana.’
‘Was it Annias?’ Kalten asked grimly.
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘No. It was Princess Arissa.’
‘His own sister?’ Bevier exclaimed. ‘That’s monstrous!’ Bevier was an Arcian, and he had deep moral convictions.
‘Arissa is fairly monstrous,’ Kalten agreed. ‘She’s not the sort to let little things stand in her way. How did she get out of the cloister in Demos to dispose of Aldreas, though?’
‘Annias arranged it,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She entertained Aldreas in her usual fashion, and when he was exhausted, she gave him the poisoned wine.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ Bevier frowned.
‘The relationship between Arissa and Aldreas went somewhat beyond what is customary for a brother and sister,’ Vanion told him delicately.
Bevier’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his olive-skinned face as he slowly gathered Vanion’s meaning.
‘Why did she kill him?’ Kalten asked. ‘Revenge for locking her up in that cloister?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I think it was a part of the overall scheme she and Annias had hatched. First they poisoned Aldreas and then Ehlana.’
‘So the way to the throne would be clear for Arissa’s bastard son?’ Kalten surmised.
‘It’s sort of logical,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘It fits together even tighter when you know that Lycheas the bastard is Annias’s son too.’
‘A Churchman?’ Tynian said, looking a bit startled. ‘Do you people here in Elenia have different rules from the rest of us?’
‘Not really, no,’ Vanion replied. ‘Annias seems to feel that he’s above the rules, and Arissa goes out of her way to break them.’
‘Arissa’s always been just a little indiscriminate,’ Kalten added. ‘Rumour has it that she was on very friendly terms with just about every man in Cimmura.’
‘That might be a slight exaggeration,’ Vanion said. He stood up and went to the window. ‘I’ll pass this information on to Patriarch Dolmant,’ he said, looking out at the foggy night. ‘He may be able to make some use of it when the time comes to elect a new Archprelate.’
‘And perhaps the Earl of Lenda might be able to use it as well,’ Sephrenia suggested. ‘The royal council is corrupt, but even they might balk if they find that Annias is trying to put his own bastard son on the throne.’ She looked at Sparhawk. ‘What else did Aldreas tell you?’ she asked.
‘Just one other thing. We know we need some magic object to cure Ehlana. He told me what it is. It’s Bhelliom. It’s the only thing in the world with enough power.’
Sephrenia’s face blanched. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Not Bhelliom!’
‘That’s what he told me.’
‘It presents a big problem,’ Ulath declared. ‘Bhelliom’s been lost since the Zemoch war, and even if we’re lucky enough to find it, it won’t respond unless we have the rings.’
‘Rings?’ Kalten asked.
‘The Troll-Dwarf, Ghwerig, made Bhelliom,’ Ulath explained. ‘Then he made a pair of rings to unlock its power. Without the rings, Bhelliom’s useless.’
‘We already have the rings,’ Sephrenia told him absently, her face still troubled.
‘We do?’ Sparhawk was startled.
‘You’re wearing one of them,’ she told him, ‘and Aldreas gave you the other this very night.’
Sparhawk stared at the ruby ring on his left hand, then back at his teacher. ‘How’s that possible?’ he demanded. ‘How did my ancestor and King Antor come by these particular rings?’
‘I gave them to them,’ she replied.
He blinked. ‘Sephrenia, that was three hundred years ago.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘approximately.’
Sparhawk stared at her, then swallowed hard. ‘Three hundred years?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘Sephrenia, just how old are you?’
‘You know I’m not going to answer that question, Sparhawk. I’ve told you that before.’
‘How did you get the rings?’
‘My Goddess, Aphrael, gave them to me – along with certain instructions. She told me where I’d find your ancestor and King Antor, and she told me to deliver the rings to them.’
‘Little mother,’ Sparhawk began, and then broke off as he saw her bleak expression.
‘Hush, dear one,’ she commanded. ‘I will say this only once, Sir Knights,’ she told them all. ‘What we do puts us in conflict with the Elder Gods, and that is not lightly undertaken. Your Elene God forgives; the Younger Gods of Styricum can be persuaded to relent. The Elder Gods, however, demand absolute compliance with their whims. To counter the commands of an Elder God is to court worse than death. They obliterate those who defy them – in ways you cannot imagine. Do we really want to bring Bhelliom back into the light again?’
‘Sephrenia! We have to!’ Sparhawk exclaimed. ‘It’s the only way we can save Ehlana – and you and Vanion for that matter.’
‘Annias will not live forever, Sparhawk, and Lycheas is hardly more than an inconvenience. Vanion and I are temporary, and so, for that matter – regardless of how you feel personally – is Ehlana. The world won’t miss any of us all that much.’ Sephrenia’s tone was almost clinical. ‘Bhelliom, however, is another matter – and so is Azash. If we fail and put the stone into that foul God’s hands, we will doom the world forever. Is it worth the risk?’
‘I’m the queen’s champion,’ Sparhawk reminded her. ‘I have to do whatever I possibly can to save her life.’ He rose and strode across the room to her. ‘So help me God, Sephrenia,’ he declared, ‘I’ll break open Hell itself to save that girl.’
‘He’s such a child sometimes,’ Sephrenia sighed to Vanion. ‘Can’t you think of some way to make him grow up?’
‘I was sort of considering going along,’ the Preceptor replied, smiling. ‘Sparhawk might let me hold his cloak while he kicks in the gate. I don’t think anybody’s assaulted Hell lately.’
‘You too?’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘All right then, gentlemen,’ she said, giving up, ‘if you’re all so bent on this, we’ll try it – but only on one condition. If we do find Bhelliom, and it restores Ehlana, we must destroy it immediately after the task is done.’
‘Destroy it?’ Ulath exploded. ‘Sephrenia, it’s the most precious thing in the world.’
‘And also the most dangerous. If Azash ever comes to possess it, the world will be lost, and all mankind will be plunged into the most hideous slavery imaginable. I must insist on this, gentlemen. Otherwise, I’ll do everything in my power to prevent your finding that accursed stone.’
‘I don’t see that we’ve got much choice here,’ Ulath said gravely to the others. ‘Without her help, we don’t have much hope of unearthing Bhelliom.’
‘Oh, somebody’s going to find it all right,’ Sparhawk told him firmly. ‘One of the things Aldreas told me was that the time has come for Bhelliom to see the light of day again, and that no force on earth can prevent it. The only thing that concerns me right now is if it’s going to be one of us who finds it, or some Zemoch, who’ll carry it back to Otha.’
‘Or if it rises from the earth all on its own,’ Tynian added moodily. ‘Could it do that, Sephrenia?’
‘Probably, yes.’
‘How did you get out of the chapterhouse without being seen by the Primate’s spies?’ Kalten asked Sparhawk curiously.
‘I threw a rope over the back wall and climbed down.’
‘How about getting in and out of the city after the gates were all closed?’
‘By pure luck the gate was still open when I was on my way to the cathedral. I used another way to get out.’
‘That garret I told you about?’ Talen asked.
Sparhawk nodded.
‘How much did he charge you?’
‘A silver half-crown.’
Talen looked shocked at that. ‘And they call me a thief. He gulled you, Sparhawk.’
‘I needed to get out of the city.’ Sparhawk shrugged.
‘I’ll tell Platime about it,’ the boy said. ‘He’ll get your money back. A half-crown? That’s outrageous.’ The boy was actually spluttering.
Sparhawk remembered something. ‘Sephrenia, when I was on my way back here, something was out in the fog watching me. I don’t think it was human.’
‘The Damork?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure, but it didn’t feel the same. The Damork’s not the only creature subject to Azash, is it?’
‘No. The Damork is the most powerful, but it’s stupid. The other creatures don’t have its power, but they’re more clever. In many ways, they can be even more dangerous.’
‘All right, Sephrenia,’ Vanion said then, ‘I think you’d better give me Tanis’s sword now.’
‘My dear one –’ she began to protest, her face anguished.
‘We’ve had this argument once already tonight,’ he told her. ‘Let’s not go through it again.’
She sighed. Then the two of them began to chant in unison in the Styric tongue. Vanion’s face turned a little greyer at the end when Sephrenia handed him the sword and their hands touched.
‘All right,’ Sparhawk said to Ulath after the transfer had been completed. ‘Where do we start? Where was King Sarak when his crown was lost?’
‘No one really knows,’ the big Genidian Knight replied. ‘He left Emsat when Otha invaded Lamorkand. He took a few retainers and left orders for the rest of his army to follow him to the battlefield at Lake Randera.’
‘Did anyone report having seen him there?’ Kalten asked.
‘Not that I’ve ever heard. The Thalesian army was seriously decimated, though. It’s possible that Sarak did get there before the battle started, but that none of the few survivors ever saw him.’
‘I expect that’s the place to start then,’ Sparhawk said.
‘Sparhawk,’ Ulath objected, ‘that battlefield is immense. All the Knights of the Church could spend the rest of their lives digging there and still not find the crown.’
‘There’s an alternative,’ Tynian said, scratching his chin.
‘And what is that, friend Tynian?’ Bevier asked him.
‘I have some skill at necromancy,’ Tynian told him. ‘I don’t like it much, but I know how it’s done. If we can find out where the Thalesians are buried, I can ask them if any of them saw King Sarak on the field and if any know where he might be buried. It’s exhausting, but the cause is worth it.’
‘I’ll be able to aid you, Tynian,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘I don’t practise necromancy myself, but I know the proper spells.’
Kurik rose to his feet. ‘I’d better get the things we’ll need together,’ he said. ‘Come along, Berit. You too, Talen.’
‘There’ll be ten of us,’ Sephrenia told him.
‘Ten?’
‘We’ll be taking Talen and Flute along with us.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Sparhawk objected. ‘Or even wise?’
‘Yes, it is. We’ll be seeking the aid of some of the Younger Gods of Styricum, and they like symmetry. We were ten when we began this search, so now we have to be the same ten every step of the way. Sudden changes disturb the Younger Gods.’
‘Anything you say.’ He shrugged.
Vanion rose and began to pace up and down. ‘We’d better get started with this,’ he said. ‘It might be safer if you left the chapterhouse before daylight and before this fog lifts. Let’s not make it too easy for the spies who watch the house.’
‘I’ll agree with that,’ Kalten approved. ‘I’d rather not have to race Annias’s soldiers all the way to Lake Randera.’
‘All right, then,’ Sparhawk said, ‘let’s get at it. Time’s running a little short on us.’
‘Stay a moment, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said as they began to file out.
Sparhawk waited until the others had left, and then he closed the door.
‘I received a communication from the Earl of Lenda this evening,’ the Preceptor told his friend.
‘Oh?’
‘He asked me to reassure you. Annias and Lycheas are taking no further action against the queen. Apparently the failure of their plot down in Arcium embarrassed Annias a great deal. He’s not going to take the chance of making a fool of himself again.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Lenda added something I don’t quite understand, though. He asked me to tell you that the candles are still burning. Do you have any idea what he meant by that?’
‘Good old Lenda,’ Sparhawk said warmly. ‘I asked him not to leave Ehlana sitting in the throne-room in the dark.’
‘I don’t think it makes much difference to her, Sparhawk.’
‘It does to me,’ Sparhawk replied.
Chapter 2
The fog was even thicker when they gathered in the courtyard a quarter of an hour later. The novices were busy in the stables saddling horses.
Vanion came out through the main door, his Styric robe gleaming in the mist-filled darkness. ‘I’m sending twenty knights with you,’ he told Sparhawk quietly. ‘You might be followed, and they’ll offer some measure of protection.’
‘We need to hurry, Vanion,’ Sparhawk objected. ‘If we take others with us, we won’t be able to move any faster than the pace of the slowest horse.’
‘I know that, Sparhawk,’ Vanion replied patiently. ‘You won’t need to stay with them for very long. Wait until you’re out in open country and the sun comes up. Make sure nobody’s too close behind you and then slip away from the column. The knights will ride on to Demos. If anybody’s following, they won’t know you aren’t still in the middle of the column.’
Sparhawk grinned. ‘Now I know how you got to be Preceptor, my friend. Who’s leading the column?’
‘Olven.’
‘Good. Olven’s dependable.’
‘Go with God, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said, clasping the big knight’s hand, ‘and be careful.’
‘I’m certainly going to try.’
Sir Olven was a bulky Pandion Knight with a number of angry red scars on his face. He came out of the chapterhouse wearing full armour, enamelled black. His men trailed out behind him. ‘Good to see you again, Sparhawk,’ he said as Vanion went back inside. Olven spoke very quietly to avoid alerting the church soldiers camped outside the front gate. ‘All right,’ he went on, ‘you and the others ride in the middle of us. With this fog, those soldiers probably won’t see you. We’ll drop the drawbridge and go out fast. We don’t want to be in sight for more than a minute or two.’
‘That’s more words than I’ve heard you use at one time in the last twenty years,’ Sparhawk said to his normally silent friend.
‘I know,’ Olven agreed. ‘I’ll have to see if I can’t cut back a little.’
Sparhawk and his friends wore mail-shirts and travellers’ cloaks, since formal armour attracts attention out in the countryside. Their armour, however, was carefully stowed in packs on the string of a half-dozen horses Kurik would lead. They mounted, and the armoured men formed up around them. Olven made a signal to the men at the windlass that raised and lowered the drawbridge, and the men slipped the rachets, allowing the windlass to run freely. There was a noisy rattle of chain, and the drawbridge dropped with a huge boom. Olven was galloping across it almost before it hit the far side of the fosse.
The dense fog helped enormously. As soon as he had galloped across the bridge, Olven cut sharply to the left, leading the column across the open field towards the Demos road. Behind them, Sparhawk could hear startled shouts as the church soldiers ran out of their tents to stare after the column in chagrin.
‘Slick,’ Kalten said gaily. ‘Across the drawbridge and into the fog in under a minute.’
‘Olven knows what he’s doing,’ Sparhawk said, ‘and what’s even better is that it’s going to be at least an hour before the soldiers can mount any kind of pursuit.’
‘Give me an hour’s head start, and they’ll never catch me,’ Kalten laughed delightedly. ‘This is starting out very well, Sparhawk.’
‘Enjoy it while you can. Things will probably start to go wrong later on.’
‘You’re a pessimist, do you know that?’
‘No. I’m just used to little disappointments.’
They slowed to a canter when they reached the Demos road. Olven was a veteran, and he always tried to conserve his horses. Speed might be necessary later, and Sir Olven took very few chances.
A full moon hung above the fog, and it made the thick mist deceptively luminous. The glowing white fog around them confused the eye and concealed far more than it illuminated. There was a chill dampness in the air, and Sparhawk pulled his cloak about him as he rode.
The Demos road swung north towards the city of Lenda before turning south-easterly again to Demos, where the Pandion Mother-house was located. Although he could not see it, Sparhawk knew that the countryside along the road was gently rolling and that there were large patches of trees out there. He was counting on those trees for concealment once he and his friends left the column.
They rode on. The fog had dampened the dirt surface of the road, and the sound of their horses’ hooves was muffled.
Every now and then the black shadows of trees loomed suddenly out of the fog at the sides of the road as they rode by. Talen shied nervously each time it happened.
‘What’s the problem?’ Kurik asked him.
‘I hate this,’ the boy replied. ‘I absolutely hate it. Anything could be hiding beside the road – wolves, bears – or even worse.’
‘You’re in the middle of a party of armed men, Talen.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, but I’m the smallest one here – except for Flute, maybe. I’ve heard that wolves and things like that always drag down the smallest when they attack. I really don’t want to be eaten, father.’
‘That keeps cropping up,’ Tynian noted curiously to Sparhawk. ‘You never did explain why the boy keeps calling your squire by that term.’
‘Kurik was indiscreet when he was younger.’
‘Doesn’t anybody in Elenia sleep in his own bed?’
‘It’s a cultural peculiarity. It’s not really as widespread as it might seem, though.’
Tynian rose slightly in his stirrups and looked ahead to where Bevier and Kalten rode side by side deep in conversation. ‘A word of advice, Sparhawk,’ he said confidentially. ‘You’re an Elenian, so you don’t seem to have any problems with this sort of thing, and in Deira we’re fairly broad-minded about such things, but I don’t know that I’d let Bevier in on this. The Cyrinic Knights are a pious lot – just like all Arcians – and they disapprove of these little irregularities very strongly. Bevier’s a good man in a fight, but he’s a little narrow-minded. If he gets offended, it might cause problems later on.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I’ll talk with Talen and ask him to keep his relationship with Kurik to himself.’
‘Do you think he’ll listen?’ the broad-faced Deiran asked sceptically.
‘It’s worth a try.’
They occasionally passed a farmhouse standing beside the foggy road with hazy golden lamplight streaming from its windows, a sure sign that even though the sky had not yet started to lighten, day had already begun for the country folk.
‘How long are we going to stay with this column?’ Tynian asked. ‘Going to Lake Randera by way of Demos is a very long way around.’
‘We can probably slip away later this morning,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘- once we’re sure that nobody’s following us. That’s what Vanion suggested.’
‘Have you got somebody watching to the rear?’
Sparhawk nodded. ‘Berit’s riding about a half-mile back.’
‘Do you think any of the Primate’s spies saw us leave your chapterhouse?’
‘They didn’t really have very much time for it,’ Sparhawk said. ‘We’d already gone past them before they came out of their tents.’
Tynian grunted. ‘Which road do you plan to take when we leave this one?’
‘I think we’ll go across country. Roads tend to be watched. I’m sure that Annias has guessed that we’re up to something by now.’
They rode on through the tag end of a foggy night. Sparhawk was pensive. He privately admitted to himself that their hastily conceived plan had little chance of success. Even if Tynian could raise the ghosts of the Thalesian dead, there was no guarantee that any of the spirits would know the location of King Sarak’s final resting place. This entire journey could well be futile and serve only to use up what time Ehlana had left. Then a thought came to him. He rode on forward to speak with Sephrenia. ‘Something just occurred to me,’ he said to her.
‘Oh?’
‘How well known is the spell you used to encase Ehlana?’
‘It’s almost never practised because it’s so very dangerous,’ she replied. ‘A few Styrics might know of it, but I doubt that any would dare to perform it. Why do you ask?’
‘I think I’m right on the edge of an idea. If no one but you is really willing to use the spell, then it’s rather unlikely that anybody else would know about the time limitation.’
‘That’s true. They wouldn’t.’
‘Then nobody could tell Annias about it.’
‘Obviously.’
‘So Annias doesn’t know that we only have a certain amount of time left. For all he knows, the crystal could keep Ehlana alive indefinitely.’
‘I’m not certain that gives us any particular advantage, Sparhawk.’
‘I’m not either, but it’s something to keep in mind. We might be able to use it someday.’
The eastern sky was growing gradually lighter as they rode, and the fog was swirling and thinning. It was about a half-hour before sunrise when Berit came galloping up from the rear. He was wearing his mail-shirt and plain blue cloak, and his war-axe was in a sling at the side of his saddle. The young novice, Sparhawk decided almost idly, was going to need some instruction in swordsmanship soon, before he grew too attached to that axe.
‘Sir Sparhawk,’ he said, reining in, ‘there’s a column of church soldiers coming up behind us.’ His hard-run horse was steaming in the chill fog.
‘How many?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘Fifty or so, and they’re galloping hard. There was a break in the fog, and I saw them coming.’
‘How far back?’
‘A mile or so. They’re in that valley we just came through.’
Sparhawk considered it. ‘I think a little change of plans might be in order,’ he said. He looked around and saw a dark blur back in the swirling fog off to the left. ‘Tynian,’ he said, ‘I think that’s a grove of trees over there. Why don’t you take the others and ride across this field and get into the grove before the soldiers catch up? I’ll be right along.’ He shook Faran’s reins. ‘I want to talk with Sir Olven,’ he told the big roan.
Faran flicked his ears irritably, then moved alongside the column at a gallop.
‘We’ll be leaving you here, Olven,’ Sparhawk told the scarfaced knight. ‘There’s a half-hundred church soldiers coming up from the rear. I want to be out of sight before they come by.’
‘Good idea,’ Olven approved. Olven was not one to waste words.
‘Why don’t you give them a bit of a run?’ Sparhawk suggested. ‘They won’t be able to tell that we’re not still in the column until they catch up with you.’
Olven grinned crookedly. ‘Even so far as Demos?’ he asked.
‘That would be helpful. Cut across country before you reach Lenda and pick up the road again south of town. I’m sure Annias has spies in Lenda too.’
‘Good luck, Sparhawk,’ Olven said.
‘Thanks,’ Sparhawk said, shaking the scarfaced knight’s hand, ‘we might need it.’ He backed Faran off the road, and the column thundered past him at a gallop.
‘Let’s see how fast you can get to that grove of trees over there,’ Sparhawk said to his bad-tempered mount.
Faran snorted derisively, then leapt forward at a dead run.
Kalten waited at the edge of the trees, his grey cloak blending into the shadows and fog. ‘The others are back in the woods a ways,’ he reported. ‘Why’s Olven galloping like that?’
‘I asked him to,’ Sparhawk replied, swinging down from his saddle. ‘The soldiers won’t know that we’ve left the column if Olven stays a mile or two ahead of them.’
‘You’re smarter than you look, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said, also dismounting. ‘I’ll get the horses back out of sight. The steam coming off them might be visible.’ He squinted at Faran. ‘Tell this ugly brute of yours not to bite me.’
‘You heard him, Faran,’ Sparhawk told his war-horse.
Faran laid his ears back.
As Kalten led their horses back among the trees, Sparhawk sank down onto his stomach behind a low bush. The grove of trees lay no more than fifty yards from the road, and as the fog began to dissipate with the onset of morning, he could clearly see that the whole stretch of road they had just left was empty. Then a single red-tunicked soldier galloped along, coming from the south. The man rode stiffly, and his face seemed strangely wooden.
‘A scout?’ Kalten whispered, crawling up beside Sparhawk.
‘More than likely,’ Sparhawk whispered back.
‘Why are we whispering?’ Kalten asked. ‘He can’t hear us over the noise of his horse’s hooves.’
‘You started it.’
‘Force of habit, I guess. I always whisper when I’m skulking.’
The scout reined in his mount at the top of the hill, then wheeled and rode back along the road at a dead run. His face was still blank.
‘He’s going to wear out that horse if he keeps doing that,’ Kalten said.
‘It’s his horse.’
‘That’s true, and he’s the one who gets to walk when the horse plays out on him.’
‘Walking is good for church soldiers. It teaches them humility.’
About five minutes later, the church soldiers galloped by, their red tunics dark in the dawn light. Accompanying the leader of the column was a tall, emaciated figure in a black robe and hood. It may have been a trick of the misty morning light, but a faint greenish glow seemed to emanate from under the hood, and the figure’s back appeared to be grossly deformed.
‘They’re definitely trying to keep an eye on that column,’ Kalten said.
‘I hope they enjoy Demos,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Olven’s going to stay ahead of them every step of the way. I need to talk with Sephrenia. Let’s go back to the others. We’ll sit tight for an hour or so, until we’re sure the soldiers are out of the area, and then move on.’
‘Good idea. I’m about ready for some breakfast anyway.’
They led their horses back through the damp woods to a small basin surrounding a trickling spring that emerged from a fern-covered bank.
‘Did they go by?’ Tynian asked.
‘At a gallop,’ Kalten grinned, ‘and they didn’t look around very much. Does anybody have anything to eat? I’m starving.’
‘I’ve got a slab of cold bacon,’ Kurik offered.
‘Cold?’
‘Fire makes smoke, Kalten. Do you really want these woods full of soldiers?’
Kalten sighed.
Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia. ‘There’s somebody – or something – riding with those soldiers,’ he said. ‘It gave me a very uneasy feeling, and I think it was the same thing I caught a glimpse of last night.’
‘Can you describe it?’
‘It’s quite tall and very very thin. Its back seems to be deformed, and it’s wearing a black hooded robe, so I couldn’t see any details.’ He frowned. ‘Those church soldiers in the column seemed as if they were half-asleep. They usually pay closer attention to what they’re doing.’
‘This thing you saw,’ she said seriously. ‘Was there anything else unusual about it?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but it seemed to have a sort of greenish light coming from its face. I noticed the same thing last night.’
Her face grew bleak. ‘I think we’d better leave immediately, Sparhawk.’
‘The soldiers don’t know we’re here,’ he objected.
‘They will before long. You’ve just described a Seeker. In Zemoch they’re used to hunt down runaway slaves. The lump on its back is caused by its wings.’
‘Wings?’ Kalten said sceptically. ‘Sephrenia, no animal has wings – except maybe a bat.’
‘This isn’t an animal, Kalten,’ she replied. ‘It more closely resembles an insect – although neither term is very exact when you’re talking about the creatures Azash summons.’
‘I hardly think we need to worry about a bug,’ he said.
‘We do with this particular creature. It has very little in the way of a brain, but that doesn’t matter because the spirit of Azash infuses it and provides its thoughts for it. It can see a long way in the dark or fog. Its ears are very sharp, and it has a very keen sense of smell. As soon as those soldiers come in sight of Olven’s column, it’s going to know that we’re not riding with the knights. The soldiers will come back at that point.’
‘Are you saying that church soldiers will take orders from an insect?’ Bevier asked incredulously.
‘They have no choice. They have no will of their own any more. The Seeker controls them utterly.’
‘How long does that last?’ he asked her.
‘For as long as they live – which usually isn’t very long. As soon as it has no further need of them, it consumes them. Sparhawk, we’re in very great danger. Let’s leave here at once.’
‘You heard her,’ Sparhawk said grimly. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They rode out of the grove of trees at a canter and crossed a wide green meadow where brown and white spotted cows grazed in knee-deep grass. Sir Ulath pulled in beside Sparhawk. ‘It’s really none of my business,’ the shaggy-browed Genidian Knight said, ‘but you had twenty Pandions with you back there. Why didn’t you just turn around and eliminate those soldiers and their bug?’
‘Fifty dead soldiers scattered along a road would attract attention,’ Sparhawk explained, ‘and new graves are almost as obvious.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ Ulath grunted. ‘Living in an over-populated kingdom has its own special problems, doesn’t it? Up in Thalesia, the Trolls and Ogres usually clean up that sort of thing before anybody chances by.’
Sparhawk shuddered. ‘Will they really eat carrion?’ he asked, looking back over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit.
‘Trolls and Ogres? Oh, yes – as long as the carrion’s not too ripe. A nice fat church soldier will feed a family of Trolls for a week or so. That’s one of the reasons there aren’t very many church soldiers or their graveyards in Thalesia. The point, though, is that I don’t like leaving live enemies behind me. Those church soldiers might come back to haunt us, and if that thing they’ve got with them is as dangerous as Sephrenia says, we probably should have got it out of the way while we had the chance.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Sparhawk admitted, ‘but it’s too late now, I’m afraid. Olven’s far out of reach. About all we can do is make a run for it and hope the soldiers’ horses tire before ours do. When we get a chance, I’ll want to talk with Sephrenia some more about that Seeker. I’ve got a feeling there were some things about it she wasn’t telling me.’
They rode hard for the rest of the day and saw no signs that the soldiers were anywhere behind them.
‘There’s a roadside inn just ahead,’ Kalten said as evening settled over the rolling countryside. ‘Do you want to chance it?’
Sparhawk looked at Sephrenia. ‘What do you think?’
‘Only for a few hours,’ she said, ‘just long enough to feed the horses and give them some rest. The Seeker will know that we’re not with that column by now, and it’s certain to be following our trail. We have to move on.’
‘We could at least get some supper,’ Kalten added, ‘and maybe a couple of hours’ sleep. I’ve been up for a long time. Besides, we might be able to pick up some information if we ask the right questions.’
The inn was run by a thin, good-humoured fellow and his plump, jolly wife. It was a comfortable place and meticulously clean. The broad fireplace at one end of the common-room did not smoke, and there were fresh rushes on the floor.
‘We don’t see many city folk this far out in the country,’ the innkeeper noted as he brought a platter of roast beef to the table, ‘- and very seldom any knights – at least I judge from your garb that you’re knights. What brings you this way, My Lords?’
‘We’re on our way to Pelosia,’ Kalten lied easily. ‘Church business. We’re in a hurry, so we decided to cut across country.’
‘There’s a road that runs on up into Pelosia about three leagues to the south,’ the innkeeper advised helpfully.
‘Roads wander around a lot,’ Kalten said, ‘and like I told you, we’re in a hurry.’
‘Anything interesting happening hereabouts?’ Tynian asked as if only mildly curious.
The innkeeper laughed wryly. ‘What can possibly happen in a place like this? The local farmers spend all their time talking about a cow that died six months ago.’ He drew up a chair and sat down uninvited. He sighed. ‘I used to live in Cimmura when I was younger. Now, there’s a place where things really happen. I miss all the excitement.’
‘What made you decide to move out here?’ Kalten asked, spearing another slice of beef with his dagger.
‘My father left me this place when he died. Nobody wanted to buy it, so I didn’t have any choice.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Now that you mention it, though,’ he said, returning to the previous topic, ‘there has been something a little unusual happening around here for the last few months.’
‘Oh?’ Tynian said carefully.
‘We’ve been seeing bands of roving Styrics. The countryside’s crawling with them. They don’t usually move around that much, do they?’
‘Not really,’ Sephrenia replied. ‘We’re not a nomadic people.’
‘I thought you might be Styric, lady – judging from your looks and your clothes. We’ve got a Styric village not far from here. They’re nice enough people, I suppose, but they keep pretty much to themselves.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I do think you Styrics could avoid a lot of the trouble that breaks out from time to time if you’d just mingle with your neighbours a little more.’
‘It’s not our way,’ Sephrenia murmured. ‘I don’t believe Elenes and Styrics are supposed to mingle.’
‘There could be something to what you say,’ he agreed.
‘Are these Styrics doing anything in particular?’ Sparhawk asked, keeping his voice neutral.
‘Asking questions is about all. They seem to be very curious about the Zemoch war for some reason.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Enjoy your supper,’ he said and went back to the kitchen.
‘We have a problem,’ Sephrenia said gravely. ‘Western Styrics do not wander about the countryside. Our Gods prefer to have us stay close to their altars.’
‘Zemochs then?’ Bevier surmised.
‘Almost certainly.’
‘When I was in Lamorkand, there were reports of Zemochs infiltrating the country east of Motera,’ Kalten remembered. ‘They were doing the same thing – wandering about the country asking questions, mostly having to do with folk-lore.’
‘Azash seems to have a plan that closely resembles ours,’ Sephrenia said. ‘He’s trying to gather information that will lead him to Bhelliom.’
‘It’s a race then,’ Kalten said.
‘I’m afraid so, and he’s got Zemochs out there ahead of us.’
‘And church soldiers behind,’ Ulath added. ‘You’ve gone and got us surrounded, Sparhawk. Could that Seeker be controlling those wandering Zemochs the same way it’s controlling the soldiers?’ the big Thalesian asked Sephrenia. ‘We could be riding into an ambush if it is, you know.’
‘I’m not entirely certain,’ she replied. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about Otha’s Seekers, but I’ve never actually seen one in action.’
‘You didn’t have time to be very specific this morning,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Exactly how is that thing controlling Annias’s soldiers?’
‘It’s venomous,’ she said. ‘Its bite paralyses the will of its victims – or of those it wants to dominate.’
‘I’ll make a point of not letting it bite me then,’ Kalten said.
‘You may not be able to stop it,’ she told him. ‘That green glow is hypnotic. That makes it easier for it to get close enough to inject the venom.’
‘How fast can it fly?’ Tynian asked.
‘It doesn’t fly at this stage of its development,’ she replied. ‘Its wings don’t mature until it becomes an adult. Besides, it has to be on the ground to follow the scent of the one it’s trying to catch. Normally, it travels on horseback, and since the horse is controlled in the same way people are, the Seeker simply rides the horse to death and then finds another. It can cover a great deal of ground that way.’
‘What does it eat?’ Kurik asked. ‘Maybe we can set a trap for it.’
‘It feeds primarily on humans,’ she told him.
‘That would make baiting a trap a little difficult,’ he admitted.
They all went to bed directly after supper, but it seemed to Sparhawk that his head had no sooner touched the pillow than Kurik was shaking him awake.
‘It’s about midnight,’ the squire said.
‘All right,’ Sparhawk said wearily, sitting up in bed.
‘I’ll wake the others,’ Kurik said, ‘and then Berit and I’ll go saddle the horses.’
After he had dressed, Sparhawk went downstairs to have a word with the sleepy innkeeper. ‘Tell me, neighbour,’ he said, ‘is there by any chance a monastery hereabouts?’
The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘I think there’s one near the village of Verine,’ he replied. ‘That’s about five leagues east of here.’
‘Thanks, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said. He looked around. ‘You’ve got a nice, comfortable inn here,’ he said, ‘and your wife keeps clean beds and sets a very fine table. I’ll mention your place to my friends.’
‘Why, that’s very kind of you, Sir Knight.’
Sparhawk nodded to him and went outside to join the others.
‘What’s the plan?’ Kalten asked.
‘The innkeeper thinks there’s a monastery near a village about five leagues away. We should reach it by morning. I want to get word of all this to Dolmant in Chyrellos.’
‘I could take the message to him for you, Sir Sparhawk,’ Berit offered eagerly.
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘The Seeker probably has your scent by now, Berit. I don’t want you getting ambushed on the road to Chyrellos. Let’s send some anonymous monk instead. That monastery’s on our way anyhow, so we won’t be losing any time. Let’s mount up.’
The moon was full and the night sky was clear as they rode away from the inn. ‘That way,’ Kurik said, pointing.
‘How do you know that?’ Talen asked him.
‘The stars,’ Kurik replied.
‘Do you mean you can actually tell direction by the stars?’ Talen sounded impressed.
‘Of course you can. Sailors have been doing that for thousands of years.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You should have stayed in school.’
‘I don’t plan to be a sailor, Kurik. Stealing fish sounds a little too much like work to me.’
They rode on through the moon-drenched night, moving almost due east. By morning they had gone perhaps five leagues, and Sparhawk rode to a hilltop to look around. ‘There’s a village just ahead,’ he told the others when he returned. ‘Let’s hope it’s the one we’re looking for.’
The village lay in a shallow valley. It was a small place, perhaps a dozen stone houses with a church at one end of its single cobbled street and a tavern at the other. A large, walled building stood atop a hill just outside the town. ‘Excuse me, neighbour,’ Sparhawk asked a passer-by as they clattered into town. ‘Is this Verine?’
‘It is.’
‘And is that the monastery up on that hill there?’
‘It is,’ the man replied again, his voice a bit sullen.
‘Is there some problem?’
‘The monks up there own all the land hereabouts,’ the fellow replied. ‘Their rents are cruel.’
‘Isn’t that always the way? All landlords are greedy.’
‘The monks insist on tithes as well as the rent. That’s going a bit far, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You’ve got a point there.’
‘Why do you call everybody “neighbour”?’ Tynian asked as they rode on.
‘Habit, I suppose,’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘I got it from my father, and I think it puts people at their ease.’
‘Why not call them “friend”?’
‘Because I never know that for sure. Let’s go talk to the Abbot of that monastery.’
The monastery was a severe-looking building surrounded by a wall made of yellow sandstone. The fields around it were well-tended, and monks wearing conical hats woven from local straw worked patiently under the morning sun in long, straight rows of vegetables. The gates of the monastery stood open, and Sparhawk and the others rode into the central courtyard. A thin, haggard-looking brother came out to meet them, his face a little fearful.
‘Good day, brother,’ Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to have a word with your Abbot.’
‘I’ll bring him immediately, My Lord.’ The brother scurried back inside the building.
The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarrassingly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep. ‘My Lords,’ he grovelled, ‘how may I serve you?’
‘It’s a small thing, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk told him gently. ‘Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?’
The Abbot swallowed hard. ‘Patriarch Dolmant?’ he said in an awed voice.
‘Tall fellow,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who’s got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It’s in the service of the Church.’
‘O-of course, Sir Knight.’
‘I’d hoped you’d feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I’ll compose the message, and then we won’t bother you any more.’
‘One other thing, My Lord Abbot,’ Kalten added. ‘Might we trouble you for a bit of food? We’ve been some time on the road, and our supplies are getting low. Nothing too exotic, mind – a few roast chickens, perhaps, a ham or two, a side of bacon, a hindquarter of beef, maybe?’
‘Of course, Sir Knight,’ the Abbot agreed quickly.
Sparhawk composed the note to Dolmant while Kurik and Kalten loaded the supplies on a packhorse.
‘Did you have to do that?’ Sparhawk asked Kalten as they rode away.
‘Charity is a cardinal virtue, Sparhawk,’ Kalten replied loftily. ‘I like to encourage it whenever I can.’
The countryside through which they galloped grew increasingly desolate. The soil was thin and poor, fit only for thorn-bushes and weeds. Here and there were pools of stagnant water, and the few trees standing near them were stunted and sick-looking. The weather had turned cloudy, and they rode through the tag-end of a dreary afternoon.
Kurik pulled his gelding in beside Sparhawk. ‘Doesn’t look too promising, does it?’ he noted.
‘Dismal,’ Sparhawk agreed.
‘I think we’re going to have to make camp somewhere tonight. The horses are almost played out.’
‘I’m not feeling too spry myself,’ Sparhawk admitted. His eyes felt gritty, and he had a dull headache.
‘The only trouble is that I haven’t seen any clean water for the last league or so. Why don’t I take Berit and see if we can find a spring or stream?’
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Sparhawk cautioned.
Kurik turned in his saddle. ‘Berit,’ he called, ‘I need you.’
Sparhawk and the others rode on at a trot while the squire and the novice ranged out in search of clean water.
‘We could just ride on, you know,’ Kalten said.
‘Not unless you feel like walking before morning,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Kurik’s right. The horses don’t have very much left in them.’
‘That’s true, I suppose.’
Then Kurik and Berit came pounding down a nearby hill at a gallop. ‘Get ready!’ Kurik shouted, shaking loose his chain-mace. ‘We’ve got company!’
‘Sephrenia!’ Sparhawk barked. ‘Take Flute and get back behind those rocks. Talen, get the packhorses.’ He drew his sword and moved to the front even as the others armed themselves.
There were fifteen or so of them, and they drove their horses over the hilltop at a run. It was an oddly assorted group, church soldiers in their red tunics, Styrics in home-spun smocks and a few peasants. Their faces were all blank, and their eyes dull. They charged on mindlessly, even though the heavily armed Church Knights were rushing to meet them.
Sparhawk and the others spread out, preparing to meet the charge. ‘For God and the Church!’ Bevier shouted, brandishing his lochaber axe. Then he spurred his horse forward, crashing into the middle of the oncoming attackers. Sparhawk was taken off guard by the young Cyrinic’s rash move, but he quickly recovered and charged in to his companion’s aid. Bevier, however, appeared to need little in the way of help. He warded off the clumsy-looking sword strokes of the mindlessly charging ambushers with his shield, and his long-handled lochaber whistled through the air to sink deep into the bodies of his enemies. Though the wounds he inflicted were hideous, the men he struck down made no outcry as they fell from their saddles. They fought and died in an eerie silence. Sparhawk rode behind Bevier, cutting down any of the numb-faced men who tried to attack the Cyrinic from behind. His sword sheared a church soldier almost in half, but the man in the red tunic did not even flinch. He raised his sword to strike at Bevier’s back, but Sparhawk split his head open with a vast overhand stroke. The soldier toppled out of his saddle and lay twitching on the bloodstained grass.
Kalten and Tynian had flanked the attackers on either side and were chopping their way into the mêlée, while Ulath, Kurik and Berit intercepted the few survivors who managed to make their way through the concerted counter-attack.
The ground was soon littered with bodies in red tunics and bloody white Styric smocks. Riderless horses plunged away from the fight, squealing in panic. In normal circumstances, Sparhawk knew the attackers bringing up the rear would falter and then flee when they saw what had befallen their comrades. These expressionless men, however, continued their attack, and it was necessary to kill them to the last man.
‘Sparhawk!’ Sephrenia shouted. ‘Up there!’ She was pointing towards the hilltop beyond which the attack had come. It was the tall, skeletal figure in the black hooded robe which Sparhawk had seen twice before. It sat its horse atop the hill with that faint green glow emanating from its concealed face.
‘That thing’s starting to bore me,’ Kalten said. ‘The best way to get rid of a bug is to step on it.’ He raised his shield and thumped his heels on his horse’s flanks. He started to gallop up the hill, his blade held menacingly aloft.
‘Kalten! No!’ Sephrenia’s shout was shrill with fright. But Kalten paid no attention to her warning. Sparhawk swore and started after his friend.
Suddenly Kalten was hurled from his saddle by some unseen force as the figure atop the hill gestured contemptuously. With revulsion Sparhawk saw that what emerged from the sleeve of the black robe was not a hand, but something more closely resembling the front claw of a scorpion.
And then, even as he swung down from Faran’s back to run to Kalten’s aid, Sparhawk gaped in astonishment. Somehow Flute had escaped from Sephrenia’s watchful eye and had advanced to the foot of the hill. She stamped one grass-stained little foot imperiously and lifted her rude pipes to her lips. Her melody was stern, even slightly discordant, and for some peculiar reason it seemed to be accompanied by a vast, unseen choir of human voices. The hooded figure on the hilltop reeled back in its saddle as if it had been struck a massive blow. Flute’s song rose, and that unseen choir swelled its song in a mighty crescendo. The sound was so overpowering that Sparhawk was forced to cover his ears. The song had reached the level of physical pain.
The figure shrieked, a dreadfully inhuman sound, and it clapped its claws to the sides of its hooded head. Then it wheeled its horse and fled down the far side of the hill.
There was no time to pursue the monstrosity. Kalten lay gasping on the ground, his face pale and his hands clutching at his stomach.
‘Are you all right?’ Sparhawk demanded, kneeling beside his friend.
‘Leave me alone,’ Kalten wheezed.
‘Don’t be stupid. Are you hurt?’
‘No. I’m lying here for fun.’ The blond man drew in a shuddering breath. ‘What did it hit me with? I’ve never been hit that hard before.’
‘You’d better let me have a look at you.’
‘I’m all right, Sparhawk. It just knocked the breath out of me, that’s all.’
‘You idiot. You know what that thing is. What were you thinking of?’ Sparhawk was suddenly, irrationally angry.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Kalten grinned weakly. ‘Maybe I should have thought my way through it a little more.’
‘Is he hurt?’ Bevier asked, dismounting and coming towards them, his face showing his concern.
‘I think he’ll be all right.’ Then Sparhawk rose, controlling his temper with some effort. ‘Sir Bevier,’ he said rather formally, ‘you’ve had training in this sort of thing. You know what you’re supposed to do when you’re under attack. What possessed you to dash into the middle of them like that?’
‘I didn’t think there were all that many of them, Sparhawk,’ Bevier replied defensively.
‘There were enough. It only takes one to kill you.’
‘You’re vexed with me, aren’t you, Sparhawk?’ Bevier’s voice was mournful.
Sparhawk looked at the young knight’s earnest face for a moment. Then he sighed. ‘No, Bevier, I suppose not. You just startled me, that’s all. Please, for the sake of my nerves, don’t do unexpected things any more. I’m not getting any younger, and surprises age me.’
‘Perhaps I didn’t consider the feelings of my comrades,’ Bevier admitted contritely. ‘I promise it will not happen again.’
‘I appreciate that, Bevier. Let’s help Kalten back down the hill. I want Sephrenia to take a look at him, and I’m sure she’ll want to have a talk with him – a nice long one.’
Kalten winced. ‘I don’t suppose I could talk you into leaving me here? This is nice soft dirt.’
‘Not a chance, Kalten,’ Sparhawk replied ruthlessly. ‘Don’t worry, though. She likes you, so she probably won’t do anything to you – nothing permanent, anyway.’
Chapter 3
Sephrenia was tending a large, ugly-looking bruise on Berit’s upper arm when Sparhawk and Bevier helped the weakly protesting Kalten down the hill to her.
‘Is it bad?’ Sparhawk asked the young novice.
‘It’s nothing, My Lord,’ Berit said bravely, although his face was pale.
‘Is that the very first thing they teach you Pandions?’ Sephrenia asked acidly, ‘- to make light of your injuries? Berit’s mail-shirt stopped most of the blow, but in about an hour his arm’s going to be purple from elbow to shoulder. He’ll barely be able to use it.’
‘You’re in a cheerful humour this afternoon, little mother,’ Kalten said to her.
She pointed a threatening finger at him. ‘Kalten,’ she said, ‘sit. I’ll deal with you after I’ve tended Berit’s arm.’
Kalten sighed and slumped down onto the ground.
Sparhawk looked around. ‘Where are Ulath, Tynian and Kurik?’ he asked.
‘They’re scouting around to make sure there aren’t any more ambushes laid for us, Sir Sparhawk,’ Berit replied.
‘Good idea.’
‘That creature didn’t look so very dangerous to me,’ Bevier said, ‘- a little mysterious perhaps, but not all that dangerous.’
‘It didn’t hit you,’ Kalten told him. ‘It’s dangerous, all right. Take my word for it.’
‘It’s more dangerous than you could possibly imagine,’ Sephrenia said. ‘It can send whole armies after us.’
‘If it’s got the kind of power that knocked me off my horse, it doesn’t need armies.’
‘You keep forgetting, Kalten. Its mind is the mind of Azash. The Gods prefer to have humans do their work for them.’
‘The men who came down that hill were like sleepwalkers,’ Bevier said, shuddering. ‘We cut them to pieces, and they didn’t make a sound.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I didn’t think Styrics were so aggressive,’ he added. ‘I’ve never seen one with a sword in his hand before.’
‘Those weren’t western Styrics,’ Sephrenia said, tying off the padded bandage around Berit’s upper arm. ‘Try not to use that too much,’ she instructed. ‘Give it time to heal.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Berit replied. ‘Now that you mention it, though, it is getting a little sore.’
She smiled and put an affectionate hand on his shoulder. ‘This one may be all right, Sparhawk. His head isn’t quite solid bone – like some I could name.’ She glanced meaningfully at Kalten.
‘Sephrenia,’ the blond knight protested.
‘Get out of the mail-shirt,’ she told him crisply. ‘I want to see if you’ve broken anything.’
‘You said the Styrics in that group weren’t western Styrics,’ Bevier said to her.
‘No. They were Zemochs. It’s more or less what we guessed at back at that inn. The Seeker will use anybody, but a western Styric is incapable of using weapons made of steel. If they’d been local people, their swords would have been bronze or copper.’ She looked critically at Kalten, who had just removed his mail-shirt. She shuddered. ‘You look like a blond rug,’ she told him.
‘It’s not my fault, little mother,’ he said, suddenly blushing. ‘All the men in my family have been hairy.’
Bevier looked puzzled. ‘What finally drove that creature off?’ he asked.
‘Flute,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘She’s done it before. She even ran off the Damork once with her pipes.’
‘This tiny child?’ Bevier’s tone was incredulous.
‘There’s more to Flute than meets the eye,’ Sparhawk told him. He looked out across the slope of the hill. ‘Talen,’ he shouted, ‘stop that.’
Talen, who had been busily pillaging the dead, looked up with some consternation. ‘But Sparhawk –’ he began.
‘Just come away from there. That’s disgusting.’
‘But – ’
‘Do as he says!’ Berit roared.
Talen sighed and came back down the hill.
‘Let’s round up the horses, Bevier,’ Sparhawk said. ‘As soon as Kurik and the others get back, I think we’ll want to move on. That Seeker is still out there, and it can come at us with a whole new group of people at any time.’
‘It can do that at night as well as in the daylight, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said dubiously, ‘and it can follow our scent.’
‘I know. At this point I think speed is our only defence. We’re going to have to try to outrun that thing again.’
Kurik, Ulath and Tynian returned as dusk was settling over the desolate landscape. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anybody else out there,’ the squire reported, swinging down from his gelding.
‘We’re going to have to keep going,’ Sparhawk told him.
‘The horses are right on the verge of exhaustion, Sparhawk,’ the squire protested. He looked at the others. ‘And the people aren’t in much better shape. None of us has had very much sleep in the last two days.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Sephrenia said calmly, looking up from her examination of Kalten’s hairy torso.
‘How?’ Kalten sounded just a bit grumpy.
She smiled at him and wiggled her fingers under his nose. ‘How else?’
‘If there’s a spell that counteracts the way we’re all feeling right now, why didn’t you teach it to us before?’ Sparhawk was also feeling somewhat surly, since his headache had returned.
‘Because it’s dangerous, Sparhawk,’ she replied. ‘I know you Pandions. Given certain circumstances, you’d try to go on for weeks.’
‘So? If the spell really works, what difference does it make?’
‘The spell only makes you feel as if you’ve rested, but you have not, in fact. If you push it too far, you’ll die.’
‘Oh. That stands to reason, I suppose.’
‘I’m glad you understand.’
‘How’s Berit?’ Tynian asked.
‘He’ll be sore for a while, but he’s all right,’ she replied.
‘The young fellow shows some promise,’ Ulath said. ‘When his arm heals, I’ll give him some instruction with that axe of his. He’s got the right spirit, but his technique’s a little shaky.’
‘Bring the horses over here,’ Sephrenia told them. She began to speak in Styric, uttering some of the words under her breath and concealing her moving fingers from them. Try as he might, Sparhawk could not catch all of the incantation, nor even guess at the gestures which enhanced the spell. But suddenly he felt enormously refreshed. The dull headache was gone, and his mind was clear. One of the packhorses, whose head had been drooping and whose legs had been trembling violently, actually began to prance around like a colt.
‘Good spell,’ Ulath said laconically. ‘Shall we get started?’
They helped Berit into his saddle and rode out in the luminous twilight. The full moon rose an hour or so later, and it gave them sufficient light to risk a canter.
‘There’s a road just over that hill up ahead,’ Kurik told Sparhawk. ‘We saw it when we were looking around. It goes more or less in the right direction, and we could make better time if we follow it instead of stumbling over broken ground in the dark.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ Sparhawk agreed, ‘and we want to get out of this area as quickly as possible.’
When they reached the road, they pushed on to the east at a gallop. It was well past midnight when clouds moved in from the west, obscuring the night sky. Sparhawk muttered an oath and slowed their pace.
Just before dawn they came to a river, and the road turned north. They followed it, searching for a bridge or a ford. The dawn was gloomy under the heavy cloud cover. They rode upriver a few more miles, and then the road bent east again and ran down into the river to emerge on the far side.
Beside the ford stood a small hut. The man who owned the hut was a sharp-eyed fellow in a green tunic who demanded a toll to cross. Rather than argue with him, Sparhawk paid what he asked. ‘Tell me, neighbour,’ he said when the transaction was completed, ‘how far is the Pelosian border?’
‘About five leagues,’ the sharp-eyed fellow replied. ‘If you move swiftly, you should reach it by afternoon.’
‘Thanks, neighbour. You’ve been most helpful.’
They splashed on across the ford. When they reached the other side, Talen rode up beside Sparhawk. ‘Here’s your money back,’ the young thief said, handing over several coins.
Sparhawk gave him a startled look.
‘I don’t object to paying a toll to cross a bridge,’ Talen sniffed. ‘After all, somebody had to go to the expense of building it. That fellow was just taking advantage of a natural shallow place in the river, though. It didn’t cost him anything, so why should he make a profit from it?’
‘You cut his purse, then?’
‘Naturally.’
‘And there was more in it than just my coins?’
‘A bit. Let’s call it my fee for recovering your money. After all, I deserve a profit too, don’t I?’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘I needed the practice.’
From the other side of the river there came a how of anguish.
‘I’d say he just discovered his loss,’ Sparhawk observed.
‘It does sound that way, doesn’t it?’
The soil on the far side of the river was not a great deal better than the scrubby wasteland through which they had just passed. Occasionally they saw poor farmsteads where shabby-looking peasants in muddy brown smocks laboured long and hard to wrest scanty crops from the unyielding earth. Kurik sniffed disdainfully. ‘Amateurs,’ he grunted. Kurik took farming very seriously.
About mid-morning the narrow track they were following joined a well-travelled road that ran due east. ‘A suggestion, Sparhawk,’ Tynian said, shifting his blue-blazoned shield.
‘Suggest away.’
‘It might be better if we took this road to the border rather than cutting across country again. Pelosians tend to be sensitive about people who avoid the manned border-crossings. They’re obsessively concerned about smugglers. I don’t think we’d accomplish very much in a skirmish with one of their patrols.’
‘All right,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Let’s stay out of trouble if we can.’
Not very long after a dreary, sunless noon, they reached the border and passed without incident into the southern end of Pelosia. The farmsteads here were even more run-down than they had been in north-eastern Elenia. The houses and outbuildings were universally roofed with sod, and agile goats grazed on the roofs. Kurik looked about disapprovingly, but said nothing.
As evening settled over the landscape, they crested a hill and saw the twinkling lights of a village in the valley below. ‘An inn perhaps?’ Kalten suggested. ‘I think Sephrenia’s spell is starting to wear off. My horse is staggering, and I’m in not much better shape.’
‘You won’t sleep alone in a Pelosian inn,’ Tynian warned. ‘Their beds are usually occupied by all sorts of unpleasant little creatures.’
‘Fleas?’ Kalten asked.
‘And lice, and bed-bugs the size of mice.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to risk it,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘The horses won’t be able to go much farther, and I don’t think the Seeker would attack us inside a building. It seems to prefer open country.’ He led the way down the hill to the village.
The streets of the town were unpaved, and they were ankle-deep in mud. They reached the town’s only inn, and Sparhawk carried Sephrenia to the porch while Kurik followed with Flute. The steps leading up to the door were caked with mud, and the boot-scraper beside the door showed little signs of use. Pelosians, it appeared, were indifferent to mud. The interior of the inn was dim and smoky, and it smelled strongly of stale sweat and spoiled food. The floor had at one time been covered with rushes, but except in the corners, the rushes were buried in dried mud.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider this?’ Tynian asked Kalten as they entered.
‘My stomach’s fairly strong,’ Kalten replied, ‘and I caught a whiff of beer when we came in.’
The supper the innkeeper provided was at least edible, although a bit over-garnished with boiled cabbage, and the beds, mere straw pallets, were not nearly as bug-infested as Tynian had predicted.
They rose early the next morning and rode out of the muddy village in a murky dawn.
‘Doesn’t the sun ever shine in this part of the world?’ Talen asked sourly.
‘It’s spring,’ Kurik told him. ‘It’s always cloudy and rainy in the spring. It’s good for the crops.’
‘I’m not a radish, Kurik,’ the boy replied. ‘I don’t need to be watered.’
‘Talk to God about it,’ Kurik shrugged. ‘I don’t make the weather.’
‘God and I aren’t on the best of terms,’ Talen said glibly. ‘He’s busy, and so am I. We try not to interfere with each other.’
‘The boy is pert,’ Bevier observed disapprovingly. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘it is not proper to speak so of the Lord of the universe.’
‘You are an honoured Knight of the Church, Sir Bevier,’ Talen pointed out. ‘I am but a thief of the streets. Different rules apply to us. God’s great flower-garden needs a few weeds to offset the splendour of the roses. I’m a weed. I’m sure God forgives me for that, since I’m a part of his grand design.’
Bevier looked at him helplessly, and then began to laugh.
They rode warily across south-eastern Pelosia for the next several days, taking turns scouting on ahead and riding to hilltops to survey the surrounding countryside. The sky remained dreary as they pushed on to the east. They saw peasants – serfs actually – labouring in the fields with the crudest of implements. There were birds nesting in the hedges, and occasionally they saw deer grazing among herds of scrubby cattle.
While there were people about, Sparhawk and his friends saw no more church soldiers or Zemochs. They remained cautious, however, avoiding people when possible and continuing their scouting, since they all knew the black-robed Seeker could enlist even normally timid serfs to do its bidding.
As they came closer to the border of Lamorkand, they received increasingly disturbing reports concerning turmoil in that kingdom. Lamorks were not the most stable people in the world. The King of Lamorkand ruled only at the sufferance of the largely independent barons, who retreated in times of trouble to positions behind the walls of massive castles. Blood-feuds dating back a hundred years or more were common, and rogue barons looted and pillaged at will. For the most part, Lamorkand existed in a state of perpetual civil war.
They made camp one night perhaps three leagues from the border of that most troubled of western kingdoms, and Sparhawk stood up directly after a supper of the last of Kalten’s hindquarter of beef. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what are we walking into? What’s stirring things up in Lamorkand? Any ideas?’
‘I spent the last eight or nine years in Lamorkand,’ Kalten said seriously. ‘They’re strange people. A Lamork will sacrifice anything he owns for the sake of revenge – and the women are even worse than the men. A good Lamork girl will spend her whole life – and all her father’s wealth – for the chance to sink a spear into somebody who refused her invitation to the dance at some midwinter party. I spent all those years there, and in all that time, I never heard anyone laugh or saw anyone smile. It’s the bleakest place on earth. The sun is forbidden to shine in Lamorkand.’
‘Is this universal warfare we’ve been hearing about from the Pelosians a common thing?’ Sparhawk asked.
‘Pelosians are not the best judges of Lamork peculiarities,’ Tynian replied thoughtfully. ‘It’s only the influence of the Church – and the presence of the Church Knights – that’s kept Pelosia and Lamorkand from blithely embarking on a war of mutual extinction. They despise each other with a passion that’s almost holy in its mindless ferocity.’
Sephrenia sighed. ‘Elenes,’ she said.
‘We have our faults, little mother,’ Sparhawk conceded. ‘We’re going to run into trouble when we cross the border then, aren’t we?’
‘Not entirely,’ Tynian said, rubbing his chin. ‘Are you open to another suggestion, maybe?’
‘I’m always open to suggestions.’
‘Why don’t we put on our formal armour? Not even the most wild-eyed Lamork baron will willingly cross the Church, and the Church Knights could grind western Lamorkand into powder if they felt like it.’
‘What if somebody calls our bluff?’ Kalten asked. ‘There are only five of us, after all.’
‘I don’t think they’d have any reason to,’ Tynian said. ‘The neutrality of the Church Knights in these local disputes is legendary. Formal armour might be just the thing to avoid misunderstandings. Our purpose is to get to Lake Randera, not to engage in random disputes with hotheads.’
‘It might work, Sparhawk,’ Ulath said. ‘It’s worth a try anyway.’
‘All right, let’s do it then,’ Sparhawk decided.
When they arose the following morning, the five knights unpacked their formal armour and began to put it on with the help of Kurik and Berit. Sparhawk and Kalten wore Pandion black with silver surcoats and formal black capes. Bevier’s armour was burnished to a silvery sheen, and his surcoat and cape were pristine white. Tynian’s armour was simply massive steel, but his surcoat and cape were a brilliant sky blue. Ulath put aside the utilitarian mail-shirt he had worn on the trail and replaced it with chain-mail trousers and a mail-coat that reached to mid-thigh. He stowed away his simple conical helmet and green traveller’s cloak and put on instead a green surcoat and a very grand-looking helmet surmounted by a pair of the curled and twisted horns he had identified as having come from an Ogre.
‘Well?’ Sparhawk said to Sephrenia when they had finished putting on their finery, ‘how do we look?’
‘Very impressive,’ she complimented them.
Talen, however, eyed them critically. ‘They look sort of like an iron-works that sprouted legs, don’t they?’ he observed to Berit.
‘Be polite,’ Berit said, concealing a smile behind one hand.
‘That’s depressing,’ Kalten sighed to Sparhawk. ‘Do you think we really look that ridiculous to the common people?’
‘Probably.’
Kurik and Berit cut lances from a nearby yew-grove and affixed steel points to them.
‘Pennons?’ Kurik asked.
‘What do you think?’ Sparhawk asked Tynian.
‘It couldn’t hurt. Let’s try to look as impressive as we can, I suppose.’
They mounted with some difficulty, adjusted their shields and moved their pennon-flagged lances into positions where they were prominently displayed and rode out. Faran immediately began to prance. ‘Oh, stop that,’ Sparhawk told him disgustedly.
They crossed into Lamorkand not much past noon. The border guards looked suspicious, but automatically gave way to the Knights of the Church dressed in their formal armour and wearing expressions of inexorable resolve.
The Lamork city of Kadach stood on the far side of a river. There was a bridge, but Sparhawk decided against going through that bleak, ugly place. Instead, he checked his map and turned north. ‘The river branches upstream,’ he told the others. ‘We’ll be able to ford it up there. We’re going more or less in that direction anyway, and towns are filled with people who just might want to talk to alien strangers asking questions about us.’
They rode on north to the series of small streams that fed into the main channel. It was when they were crossing one of these shallow streams that afternoon that they saw a large body of Lamork warriors on the far bank.
‘Spread out,’ Sparhawk commanded tersely. ‘Sephrenia, take Talen and Flute to the rear.’
‘You think they might belong to the Seeker?’ Kalten asked, moving his hand up the shaft of his lance.
‘We’ll find out in a minute. Don’t do anything rash, but be ready for trouble.’
The leader of the group of warriors was a burly fellow wearing a chain-coat, a steel helmet with a protruding, pig-faced visor and stout leather boots. He advanced into the stream alone and raised his visor to show that he had no hostile intentions.
‘I think he’s all right, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said quietly. ‘He doesn’t have that blank look on his face that the men we killed back in Elenia had.’
‘Well met, Sir Knights,’ the Lamork said.
Sparhawk nudged Faran forward a bit through the swirling current. ‘Well met indeed, My Lord,’ he replied.
‘This is a fortunate encounter,’ the Lamork continued. ‘It seemed me that we might have ridden even so far as Elenia ere we had encountered Church Knights.’
‘And what is your business with the Knights of the Church, My Lord?’ Sparhawk asked politely.
‘We require a service of you, Sir Knight – a service that bears directly on the well-being of the Church.’
‘We live but to serve her,’ Sparhawk said, struggling to conceal his irritation. ‘Speak further concerning this necessary service.’
‘As all the world knows, the Patriarch of the city of Kadach is the paramount choice for the Archprelate’s throne in Chyrellos,’ the helmeted Lamork stated.
‘I hadn’t heard that,’ Kalten said quietly from behind.
‘Hush,’ Sparhawk muttered over his shoulder. ‘Say on, My Lord,’ he said to the Lamork.
‘Misfortunately, civil turmoil mars western Lamorkand presently,’ the Lamork continued.
‘I like “misfortunately”,’ Tynian murmured to Kalten. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it.’
‘Will you two be quiet?’ Sparhawk snapped. Then he looked back at the man in the chain-coat. ‘Rumour has advised us of this discord, My Lord,’ he replied. ‘But surely this is a local matter, and does not involve the Church.’
‘I will speak to the point, Sir Knight. The Patriarch Ortzel of Kadach has been forced by the turmoil I but recently mentioned to seek shelter in the stronghold of his brother, the Baron Alstrom, whom I have the honour to serve. Rude civil discord rears its head here in Lamorkand, and we anticipate with some certainty that the foes of My Lord Alstrom will shortly besiege his fortress.’
‘We are but five, My Lord,’ Sparhawk pointed out. ‘Surely our aid would be of little use in a protracted siege.’
‘Ah, no, Sir Knight,’ the Lamork said with a disdainful smile. ‘We can sustain ourselves and my Lord Alstrom’s castle without the aid of the invincible Knights of the Church. My Lord Alstrom’s castle is impregnable, and his foes may freely dash themselves to pieces against its walls for a generation or more without causing us alarm. As I have said, however, the Patriarch Ortzel is the paramount choice for the Archprelacy – in the event of the demise of the revered Cluvonus, which, please God, may be delayed for a time. Thus I charge you and your noble companions, Sir Knight, to convey his Grace safe and whole to the sacred city of Chyrellos so that he may stand for election, should that mournful necessity come to pass. With that end in view, I will forthwith convey you and your knightly companions to the stronghold of My Lord of Alstrom so that you may undertake this noble task. Let us then proceed.’
Chapter 4
The castle of Baron Alstrom was situated on a rocky promontory on the east bank of the river. The promontory jutted out into the main channel a few leagues above the town of Kadach. It was a bleak, ugly fortress, squatting toad-like under a cheerless sky. Its walls were thick and high, seeming to reflect the stiff, unyielding arrogance of its owner.
‘Impregnable?’ Bevier murmured derisively to Sparhawk as the knight in the chain-coat led them along the short causeway that led out to the castle gate. ‘I could reduce these walls within the space of two years. No Arcian noble would feel secure within such flimsy fortifications.’
‘Arcians have more time to build their castles,’ Sparhawk pointed out to the white-caped knight. ‘It takes longer to start a war in Arcium than it does here in Lamorkand. You can start a war here in about five minutes, and it’s likely to go on for generations.’
‘Truly,’ Bevier agreed. He smiled faintly. ‘In my youth I gave some time to the study of military history. When I turned to the volumes dealing with Lamorkand, I threw up my hands in despair. No rational man could sort out all the alliances, betrayals and blood feuds that seethe just below the surface of this unhappy kingdom.’
The drawbridge boomed down, and they clattered on across it into the castle’s main court. ‘And it please you, Sir Knights,’ the Lamork knight said, dismounting, ‘I will convey you directly into the presence of the Baron Alstrom and His Grace, the Patriarch Ortzel. Time is pressing, and we must see His Grace safely out of the castle ere the forces of Count Gerrich mount their siege.’
‘Lead on, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk said, clanking down from Faran’s back. He leaned his lance against the wall of the stable, hung his silver-embossed black shield on his saddle and handed his reins to a waiting groom.
They went up a broad stone staircase and through the pair of massive doors at its top. The hallway beyond was torchlit, and the stones of its walls were massive. ‘Did you warn that groom?’ Kalten asked, falling in beside Sparhawk, his long black cape swirling about his ankles.
‘About what?’
‘Your horse’s disposition.’
‘I forgot,’ Sparhawk confessed. ‘He’ll find out on his own, I imagine.’
‘He probably already has.’
The room to which the Lamork knight led them was bleak. In many respects it was more like an armoury than living quarters. Swords and axes hung on the walls, and pikes in clusters of a dozen or so leaned in the corners. A fire burned in a huge, vaulted fireplace, and the few chairs were heavy and unpadded. There was no carpeting on the floor, and a number of huge wolf-hounds dozed here and there.
Baron Alstrom was a grim-faced, melancholy-looking man. His black hair and beard were shot with grey. He wore a mail-coat and had a broadsword at his waist. His surcoat was black and elaborately embroidered in red, and like the knight in the pig-faced helmet, he wore boots.
Their escort bowed stiffly. ‘By good fortune, My Lord, I encountered these Knights of the Church no more than a league from your walls. They were gracious enough to accompany me here.’
‘Did we have any choice?’ Kalten muttered.
The Baron rose from his chair with a movement made clumsy by the encumbrance of armour and sword. ‘Greetings, Sir Knights,’ he said, in a voice without much warmth. ‘It was indeed fortuitous that Sir Enmann encountered you so near this stronghold. The forces of mine enemy will presently besiege me here, and my brother must be safely away before they come.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ Sparhawk replied, removing his black helmet and looking after the departing Lamork in the chain-coat. ‘Sir Enmann advised us of the circumstances. Might it not have been more prudent, however, to have sent your brother on his way with an escort of your own troops? It was only a chance meeting that brought us to your gate ahead of your enemies.’
Alstrom shook his head. ‘The warriors of Count Gerrich would certainly attack my men on sight. Only under escort of the Knights of the Church will my brother be safe, Sir – ?’
‘Sparhawk.’
Alstrom looked briefly surprised. ‘The name is not unknown to us,’ he said. He looked inquiringly at the others, and Sparhawk made the introductions.
‘An oddly assorted party, Sir Sparhawk,’ Alstrom observed after he had bowed perfunctorily to Sephrenia. ‘But is it wise to take the lady and the two children on a journey that might involve danger?’
‘The lady is essential to our purpose,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘The little girl is under her care, and the boy is her page. She would not leave them behind.’
‘Page?’ he heard Talen whisper to Berit. ‘I’ve been called a lot of things, but that’s a new one.’
‘Hush,’ Berit whispered back.
‘What astonishes me even more, however,’ Alstrom continued, ‘is the fact that all four of the militant orders are represented here. Relations between the orders have not been cordial of late, I’ve been told.’
‘We are embarked upon a quest which directly involves the Church,’ Sparhawk explained, taking off his gauntlets. ‘It is of such pressing urgency that our Preceptors brought us together that we might by our unity prevail.’
‘The unity of the Church Knights, like that of the Church herself, is long overdue,’ a harsh voice said from the far side of the room. A Churchman stepped out of the shadows. His black cassock was plain, even severe, and his hollow-cheeked face was bleakly ascetic. His hair was pale blond, streaked with grey, and it fell straight to his shoulders, appearing to have been hacked off at that point with the blade of a knife.
‘My brother,’ Alstrom introduced him, ‘the Patriarch Ortzel of Kadach.’
Sparhawk bowed, his armour creaking slightly. ‘Your Grace,’ he said.
‘This Church matter you mentioned interests me,’ Ortzel said, coming forward into the light. ‘What can it be that is of such urgency that it impels the Preceptors of the four orders to set aside old enmities and to send their champions forth as one?’
Sparhawk thought only a moment, then gambled. ‘Is Your Grace perhaps acquainted with Annias, Primate of Cimmura?’ he asked, depositing his gauntlets in his helmet.
Ortzel’s face hardened. ‘We’ve met,’ he said flatly.
‘We’ve also had that pleasure,’ Kalten said drily, ‘often enough to more than satisfy me, at least.’
Ortzel smiled briefly. ‘I gather that our opinions of the good Primate more or less coincide,’ he suggested.
‘Your Grace is perceptive,’ Sparhawk noted smoothly. ‘The Primate of Cimmura aspires to a position in the Church for which our Preceptors feel he is unqualified.’
‘I have heard of his aspirations in that direction.’
‘This is the main thrust of our quest, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘The Primate of Cimmura is deeply involved in the politics of Elenia. The lawful queen of that realm is Ehlana, daughter to the late King Aldreas. She is, however, gravely ill, and Primate Annias controls the royal council – which means, of course, that he also controls the royal treasury. It is his access to that treasury that fuels his hopes to ascend the throne of the Archprelacy. He has more or less unlimited funds at his disposal, and certain members of the Hierocracy have proved to be susceptible to his blandishments. It is our mission to restore the queen to health so that she might once again take the rulership of her kingdom into her own hands.’
‘An unseemly state of affairs,’ Baron Alstrom observed disapprovingly. ‘No kingdom should be ruled by a woman.’
‘I have the honour to be the queen’s champion, My Lord,’ Sparhawk declared, ‘and, I hope, her friend as well. I have known her since she was a child, and I assure you that Ehlana is no ordinary woman. She has more steel in her than almost any other monarch in all of Eosia. Once she is restored to health, she will be more than a match for the Primate of Cimmura. She will cut off his access to the treasury as easily as she would snip off a stray lock of hair, and without that money, the Primate’s hopes die.’
‘Then your quest is a noble one, Sir Sparhawk,’ Patriarch Ortzel approved, ‘but why has it brought you to Lamorkand?’
‘May I speak frankly, Your Grace?’
‘Of course.’
‘We have recently discovered that Queen Ehlana’s illness is not of natural origin, and to cure her, we must resort to extreme measures.’
‘You’re speaking too delicately, Sparhawk,’ Ulath growled, removing his Ogre-horned helmet. ‘What my Pandion brother is trying to say, Your Grace, is that Queen Ehlana has been poisoned, and that we’ll have to use magic to bring her back to health.’
‘Poisoned?’ Ortzel paled. ‘Surely you do not suspect Primate Annias?’
‘Everything points that way, Your Grace,’ Tynian said, pushing back his blue cape. ‘The details are tedious, but we have strong evidence that Annias was behind it all.’
‘You must bring these charges before the Hierocracy,’ Ortzel exclaimed. ‘If they are true, this is monstrous.’
‘The matter is already in the hands of the Patriarch of Demos, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk assured him. ‘I think we can trust him to lay it before the Hierocracy at the proper time.’
‘Dolmant is a good man,’ Ortzel agreed. ‘I’ll abide by his decision in the matter – for the time being, at least.’
‘Please be seated, Sir Knights,’ the Baron said. ‘The urgency of this present situation has made me remiss in matters of courtesy. Might I offer you some refreshment?’
Kalten’s eyes brightened.
‘Never mind,’ Sparhawk muttered to him, holding a chair for Sephrenia. She sat, and Flute came over and climbed up into her lap.
‘Your daughter, Madame?’ Ortzel surmised.
‘No, Your Grace. She’s a foundling – of sorts. I’m fond of her, however.’
‘Berit,’ Kurik said, ‘we’re just in the way here. Let’s go to the stables. I want to check over the horses.’ And the two of them left the room.
‘Tell me, My Lord,’ Bevier said to Baron Alstrom, ‘what is it that has brought you to the brink of war? Some ancient dispute, perhaps?’
‘No, Sir Bevier,’ the baron replied, his face hardening, ‘this is an affair of more recent origin. Perhaps a year ago my only son became friendly with a knight who said he was from Cammoria. I have since discovered that the man is a villain. He encouraged my young and foolish son in the vain hope of obtaining the hand of the daughter of my neighbour, Count Gerrich. The girl seemed amenable, though her father and I have never been friends. Not long after, however, Gerrich announced that he had promised his daughter’s hand to another. My son was enraged. His so-called friend goaded him on in this and proposed a desperate plan: they would abduct the girl, find a priest willing to marry her to my son, and present Gerrich with a number of grandchildren to still his wrath. They scaled the walls of the Count’s castle and crept into the girl’s bedchamber. I have since discovered that my son’s supposed friend had alerted the Count, and Gerrich and his sister’s seven sons sprang from hiding as the two entered. My son, believing that it had been the Count’s daughter who had betrayed him, plunged his dagger into her breast before the Count’s nephews fell upon him with their swords.’ Alstrom paused, his teeth clenched and his eyes brimming.
‘My son was obviously in the wrong,’ he admitted, continuing his story, ‘and I would not have pursued the matter, grieved though I was. It was what happened after my son’s death that has set eternal enmity between Gerrich and myself. Not content with merely killing my son, the Count and his sister’s savage brood mutilated his body and contemptuously desposited it at my castle gate. I was outraged, but the Cammorian Knight, whom I still trusted, advised guile. He pled matters of pressing urgency in Cammoria, but promised me the aid of two of his trusted retainers. It was but last week that the two arrived at my door to tell me that the time for my revenge had come. They led my soldiers to the house of the Count’s sister, and there they slaughtered the Count’s seven nephews. I have since discovered that these two underlings inflamed my soldiers, and they took certain liberties with the person of Gerrich’s sister.’
‘That’s a delicate way to put it,’ Kalten whispered to Sparhawk.
‘Be still,’ Sparhawk whispered back.
‘The lady was dispatched – naked, I’m afraid – to her brother’s castle. Reconciliation is now quite impossible. Gerrich has many allies, as do I, and western Lamorkand now hovers on the brink of general war.’
‘A melancholy tale, My Lord,’ Sparhawk said sadly.
‘The impending war is my concern. What is important now is to remove my brother from this house and to convey him safely to Chyrellos. Should he also fall during Gerrich’s attack, the Church will have no choice but to send in her Knights. The murder of a Patriarch – particularly one who is a strong candidate for elevation to the Archprelacy – would be a crime she could not ignore. Thus it is that I implore you to safeguard him on his way to the Holy City.’
‘One question, My Lord,’ Sparhawk said. ‘The activities of this Cammorian Knight have a familiar ring to them. Can you describe him and his underlings to us?’
‘The knight himself is a tall man with an arrogant bearing. One of his companions is a huge brute, scarcely human. The other is a rabbity fellow with an excessive fondness for strong drink.’
‘Sounds a bit like some old friends, doesn’t it?’ Kalten said to Sparhawk. ‘Was there anything unusual about this knight?’
‘His hair was absolutely white,’ Alstrom replied, ‘and he was not that old.’
‘Martel certainly moves around, doesn’t he?’ Kalten observed.
‘You know this man, Sir Kalten?’ the baron asked.
‘The white-haired man is named Martel,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘His two hirelings are Adus and Krager. Martel’s a renegade Pandion Knight who hires out his services in various parts of the world. Most recently, he’s been working for the Primate of Cimmura.’
‘But what would be the Primate’s purpose in fomenting discord between Gerrich and me?’
‘You’ve already touched on that, My Lord,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘The Preceptors of the four militant orders are firmly opposed to the notion of Annias sitting on the Archprelate’s throne. They will be present – and voting – during the election in the Basilica of Chyrellos, and their opinion carries great weight with the Hierocracy. Moreover, the Knights of the Church would respond immediately to the first hint of any irregularities in the election. If Annias is to succeed, he must get the Church Knights out of Chyrellos before the election. We were recently able to thwart a plot that Martel was hatching in Rendor that would have pulled the Knights out of the Holy City. It’s my guess that this unhappy affair you told us about is yet another. Martel, acting on orders from Annias, is roaming the world building bonfires in the hope that sooner or later the Knights of the Church will be forced to move out of Chyrellos to extinguish them.’
‘Is Annias truly so depraved?’ Ortzel asked.
‘Your Grace, Annias will do anything to ascend that throne. I’m positive that he’d order the massacre of half of Eosia to get what he wants.’
‘How is it possible for a Churchman to stoop so low?’
‘Ambition, Your Grace,’ Bevier said sadly. ‘Once it sinks its claws into a man’s heart, the man becomes blind to all else.’
‘This is all the more reason to get my brother safely to Chyrellos,’ Alstrom said gravely. ‘He is much respected by the other members of the Hierocracy, and his voice will carry great weight in their deliberations.’
‘I must advise you and your brother, My Lord Alstrom, that there is a certain risk involved in your plan,’ Sparhawk warned them. ‘We are being pursued. There are those bent on thwarting us in our quest. Since your brother’s safety is your first concern, I should tell you that I cannot guarantee it. The ones who are pursuing us are determined and very dangerous.’ He spoke obliquely, since neither Alstrom or Ortzel would give him much credence if he told them the bald truth about the nature of the Seeker.
‘I’m afraid I have no real choice in the matter, Sir Sparhawk. With this anticipated siege hanging over my head, I have to get my brother out of the castle, no matter what the risk.’
‘As long as you understand, My Lord,’ Sparhawk sighed. ‘Our mission is of the gravest urgency, but this matter overshadows even that.’
‘Sparhawk!’ Sephrenia gasped.
‘We have no choice, little mother,’ he told her. ‘We absolutely must get His Grace safely out of Lamorkand and to Chyrellos. The Baron was right. If anything happens to his brother, the Church Knights will ride out of Chyrellos to retaliate. Nothing could prevent it. We’ll have to take His Grace to the Holy City and then try to make up for lost time.’
‘What precisely is the object of your search, Sir Sparhawk?’ the Patriarch of Kadach asked.
‘As Sir Ulath explained, we are forced to resort to magic to restore the Queen of Elenia to health, and there’s only one thing in the world with that much power. We’re on our way to the great battlefield at Lake Randera to seek out the jewel which once surmounted the royal crown of Thalesia.’
‘Bhelliom?’ Ortzel was shocked. ‘Surely you would not bring that accursed thing to light again?’
‘We have no choice, Your Grace. Only Bhelliom can restore my queen.’
‘But Bhelliom is tainted. All the wickedness of the Troll-Gods infects it.’
‘The Troll-Gods aren’t all that bad, Your Grace,’ Ulath said. ‘They’re capricious, I’ll grant you, but they’re not truly evil.’
‘The Elene God forbids consorting with them.’
‘The Elene God is wise, Your Grace,’ Sephrenia told him. ‘He has also forbidden contact with the Gods of Styricum. He made an exception to his prohibition, however, when the time came to form the militant orders. The Younger Gods of Styricum agreed to assist Him in His design. One wonders if He might not also be able to enlist the aid of the Troll-Gods. He is, I understand, most persuasive.’
‘Blasphemy!’ Ortzel gasped.
‘No, Your Grace, not really. I am Styric and therefore not subject to Elene theology.’
‘Hadn’t we better get going?’ Ulath suggested. ‘It’s a long ride to Chyrellos, and we need to get His Grace out of this castle before the fighting starts.’
‘Well put, my laconic friend,’ Tynian approved.
‘I shall make ready at once,’ Ortzel said, going to the door. ‘We will be able to depart within the hour.’ And he went out.
‘How long do you think it’s likely to be before the count’s forces reach here, My Lord?’ Tynian asked the baron.
‘No more than a day, Sir Tynian. I have friends who are impeding his march northward from his keep, but he has a sizeable army, and I’m certain he will soon break his way through.’
‘Talen,’ Sparhawk said sharply, ‘put it back.’
The boy made a wry face and laid a small dagger with a jewelled hilt back on the table from which he had taken it. ‘I didn’t think you were watching,’ he said.
‘Don’t ever make that mistake,’ Sparhawk said. ‘I always watch you.’
The baron looked puzzled.
‘The boy has not yet learned to grasp some of the finer points of property ownership, My Lord,’ Kalten said lightly. ‘We’ve been trying to teach him, but he’s a slow learner.’
Talen sighed and took up his sketch pad and pencil. Then he sat at a table on the far side of the room and began to draw. He was, Sparhawk remembered, very talented.
‘I am most grateful to you all, gentlemen,’ the baron was saying. ‘The safety of my brother has been my only concern. Now I shall be able to concentrate on the business at hand.’ He looked at Sparhawk. ‘Do you think you might possibly encounter this Martel person during the course of your quest?’
‘I most certainly hope so,’ Sparhawk said fervently.
‘And is it your intention to kill him?’
‘That’s been Sparhawk’s intention for the last dozen years or so,’ Kalten said. ‘Martel sleeps very lightly when Sparhawk’s in the same kingdom with him.’
‘May God aid your arm then, Sir Sparhawk,’ the baron said. ‘My son will rest more peacefully once his betrayer joins him in the House of the Dead.’
The door burst open, and Sir Enmann hurried into the room. ‘My Lord!’ he said to Alstrom in urgent tones, ‘come quickly!’
Alstrom came to his feet. ‘What is it, Sir Enmann?’
‘Count Gerrich has deceived us. He has a fleet of ships on the river, and even now his forces are landing on both sides of this promontory.’
‘Sound the alarm!’ the baron commanded, ‘and raise the drawbridge!’
‘At once, My Lord.’ Enmann hurried from the room.
Alstrom sighed bleakly. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late, Sir Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Both your quest and the task I set you are doomed now. We are under siege, and we will all be trapped within these walls for a number of years, I fear.’
Chapter 5
The booming crash of boulders slamming against the walls of Alstrom’s castle came with monotonous regularity as the siege engines of Count Gerrich moved into place and began pounding the fortress.
Sparhawk and the others had remained in the cheerless, weapon-cluttered room at Alstrom’s request, and they sat awaiting his return.
‘I’ve never been under siege before,’ Talen said, looking up from his drawings. ‘How long do they usually last?’
‘If we can’t come up with a way to get out of here, you’ll be shaving by the time it’s over,’ Kurik told him.
‘Do something, Sparhawk,’ the boy said urgently.
‘I’m open to suggestions.’
Talen looked at him helplessly.
Baron Alstrom came back into the room. His face was bleak. ‘I’m afraid we’re completely encircled,’ he said.
‘A truce, perhaps?’ Bevier suggested. ‘It’s customary in Arcium to grant safe passage to women and Churchmen before pressing a siege.’
‘Unfortunately, Sir Bevier,’ Alstrom replied, ‘this is not Arcium. This is Lamorkand, and there’s no such thing as a truce here.’
‘Any ideas?’ Sparhawk asked Sephrenia.
‘A few, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Let me have a try at your excellent Elene logic. First, the use of main force to break out of the castle is quite out of the question, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And, as you pointed out, a truce would probably not be honoured?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t want to gamble His Grace’s life or yours on a truce.’
‘Then there’s the possibility of stealth. I don’t think that would work either, do you?’
‘Too risky,’ Kalten agreed. ‘The castle is surrounded, and the soldiers will be on the alert for people trying to sneak out.’
‘Subterfuge of some kind?’ she asked.
‘Not under these circumstances,’ Ulath said. ‘The troops surrounding the castle are armed with crossbows. We’d never get close enough to tell them stories.’
‘That leaves only the arts of Styricum, doesn’t it?’
Ortzel’s face stiffened. ‘I will not be a party to the use of heathen sorcery,’ he declared.
‘I was afraid he might look at it that way,’ Kalten murmured to Sparhawk.
‘I’ll try to reason with him in the morning,’ Sparhawk replied under his breath. He looked at Baron Alstrom. ‘It’s late, My Lord,’ he said, ‘and we’re all tired. Some sleep might clear our heads and hint at other solutions.’
‘Well said, Sir Sparhawk,’ Alstrom agreed. ‘My servants will convey you and your companions to safe quarters, and we shall consider this matter further on the morrow.’
They were led through the bleak halls of Alstrom’s castle to a wing that, while comfortable, showed little signs of use. Supper was brought to them in their rooms, and Sparhawk and Kalten removed their armour. After they had eaten, they sat talking quietly in the chamber they shared.
‘I could have told you that Ortzel would feel the way he does about magic. The Churchmen here in Lamorkand feel almost as strongly about it as Rendors.’
‘If it’d been Dolmant, we might have talked our way around him,’ Sparhawk agreed glumly.
‘Dolmant’s more cosmopolitan,’ Kalten said. ‘He grew up next door to the Pandion Mother-house, and he knows a great deal more about the secrets than he lets on.’
There was a light rap on the door. Sparhawk rose and answered it. It was Talen. ‘Sephrenia wants to see you,’ he told the big knight.
‘All right. Go to bed, Kalten. You’re still looking a bit worse for wear. Lead the way, Talen.’
The boy took Sparhawk to the end of the corridor and tapped on the door.
‘Come in, Talen,’ Sephrenia replied.
‘How did you know it was me?’ Talen asked curiously as he opened the door.
‘There are ways,’ she said mysteriously. The small Styric woman was gently brushing Flute’s long black hair. The child had a dreamy look on her small face, and she was humming to herself contentedly. Sparhawk was startled. It was the first vocal sound he had ever heard her utter. ‘If she can hum, why is it she can’t talk?’ he asked.
‘Whatever gave you the idea she can’t talk?’ Sephrenia continued her brushing.
‘She never has.’
‘What does that have to do with it?’
‘What did you want to see me about?’
‘It’s going to take something rather spectacular to get us out of here,’ she replied, ‘and I may need your help and that of the others to manage it.’
‘All you have to do is ask. Have you got any ideas?’
‘A few. Our first problem is Ortzel, though. If he bows his neck on this, we’ll never get him out of the castle.’
‘Suppose I just hit him on the head before we leave and tie him across his saddle until we’re safely away?’
‘Sparhawk,’ she chided him.
‘It was a thought,’ he shrugged. ‘What about Flute here?’
‘What about her?’
‘She made those soldiers on the docks at Vardenais and the spies outside the chapterhouse ignore us. Couldn’t she do that here too?’
‘Do you realize how large that army outside the gate is, Sparhawk? She’s just a little girl, after all.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know that would make a difference.’
‘Of course it does.’
‘Couldn’t you put Ortzel to sleep?’ Talen asked her. ‘You know, sort of wiggle your fingers at him until he drops off?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Then he won’t know you used magic to get us out of here until he wakes up.’
‘Interesting notion,’ she conceded. ‘How did you come up with it?’
‘I’m a thief, Sephrenia,’ he grinned impudently. ‘I wouldn’t be very good at it if I couldn’t think faster than the other fellow.’
‘However we manage Ortzel is beside the point,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Our main concern is getting Alstrom’s co-operation. He might be a little reluctant to risk his brother’s life on something he doesn’t understand. I’ll talk with him in the morning.’
‘Be very persuasive, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said.
‘I’ll try. Come along, Talen. Let the ladies get some sleep. Kalten and I have a spare bed in our room. You can sleep there. Sephrenia, don’t be afraid to call on me and the others if you need help with any spells.’
‘I’m never afraid, Sparhawk – not when I have you to protect me.’
‘Stop that,’ he told her. Then he smiled. ‘Sleep well, Sephrenia.’
‘You too, dear one.’
‘Good night, Flute,’ he added.
She blew him a little trill on her pipes.
The following morning, Sparhawk rose early and went back into the main part of the castle. As chance had it, he encountered Sir Enmann in the long, torchlit corridor. ‘How do things stand?’ he asked the Lamork knight.
Enmann’s face was grey with fatigue. He had obviously been up all night. ‘We’ve had some successes, Sir Sparhawk,’ he replied. ‘We repelled a fairly serious assault on the castle’s main gate about midnight, and we’re moving our own engines into place. We should be able to begin destroying Gerrich’s siege machines – and his ships – before noon.’
‘Will he pull back at that point?’
Enmann shook his head. ‘More likely, he’ll begin digging earthwork fortifications. It’s probable that the siege will be protracted.’
Sparhawk nodded. ‘I thought that might be the case,’ he agreed. ‘Have you any idea where I might find Baron Alstrom? I need to talk with him – out of the hearing of his brother.’
‘My Lord Alstrom is atop the battlements at the front of the castle, Sir Sparhawk. He wants Gerrich to be able to see him. That may goad the count into some rash move. He’s alone there. His brother is customarily in chapel at this hour.’
‘Good. I’ll go talk with the baron then.’
It was windy atop the battlements. Sparhawk had drawn his cloak about his armour to conceal it, and the wind whipped it around his legs.
‘Ah, good morning, Sir Sparhawk,’ Baron Alstrom said. His voice was weary. He wore a full suit of armour, and the visor of his helmet had that peculiar pointed construction common in Lamorkand.
‘Good morning, My Lord,’ Sparhawk replied, staying back from the battlements. ‘Is there somewhere back out of sight where we can talk? I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let Gerrich know that there are Church Knights inside your walls just yet, and I’m sure he has a number of sharp-eyed men watching you.’
‘The tower there above the gate,’ Alstrom suggested. ‘Come along, Sir Sparhawk.’ And he led the way along the parapet.
The room inside the tower was grimly functional. A dozen crossbowmen stood at the narrow embrasures along its front, unloosing their bolts at the troops below.
‘You men,’ Alstrom commanded, ‘I have need of this room. Go shoot from the battlements for a while.’
The soldiers filed out, their metal-shod feet clinking on the stone floor.
‘We have a problem, My Lord,’ Sparhawk said when the two of them were alone.
‘I noticed that,’ Alstrom said drily, glancing out of one of the embrasures at the troops massed before his walls.
Sparhawk grinned at this rare flash of humour in a usually dour race. ‘That particular problem is yours, My Lord,’ he said. ‘Our mutual one is what we’re going to do about your brother. Sephrenia got directly to the point last night. No purely natural effort is going to effect his escape from this siege. We have no choice. We have to use magic – and His Grace appears to be unalterably opposed.’
‘I would not presume to instruct Ortzel in theology.’
‘Nor would I, My Lord. Might I point out, however, that should His Grace ascend to the Archprelacy, he’s going to have to modify his position – or at least learn to look the other way when this sort of thing happens. The four orders are the military arm of the Church, and we routinely utilize the secrets of Styricum in completing our tasks.’
‘I’m aware of that, Sir Sparhawk. My brother, however, is a rigid man and unlikely to change his views.’
Sparhawk began to pace up and down, thinking fast. ‘Very well, then,’ he said carefully. ‘What we’ll have to do to get your brother out of the castle will seem unnatural to you, but I assure you that it will be very effective. Sephrenia is highly skilled in the secrets. I’ve seen her do things that verge on the miraculous. You have my guarantee that she will in no way endanger your brother.’
‘I understand, Sir Sparhawk.’
‘Good. I was afraid that you might object. Most people are reluctant to rely on things they don’t understand. Now, then, His Grace will in no way participate in what we may have to do. To put it bluntly, he’d just be in the way. All he’s going to do is take advantage of it. He will in no way be personally involved in what he considers a sin.’
‘Understand me, Sir Sparhawk, I am not opposed to you in this. I will try reason with my brother. Sometimes he listens to me.’
‘Let’s hope this is one of those times.’ Sparhawk glanced out of the window and swore.
‘What is it, Sir Sparhawk?’
‘Is that Gerrich standing on top of that knoll at the rear of his troops?’
The Baron looked out of the embrasure. ‘It is.’
‘You might recognize the man standing beside him. That’s Adus, Martel’s underling. It seems that Martel’s been playing both sides in this affair. The one that concerns me, though, is that figure standing off to one side – the tall one in the black robe.’
‘I don’t think it poses much of a threat, Sir Sparhawk. It seems to be hardly more than a skeleton.’
‘You notice how its face seems to glow?’
‘Now that you mention it, yes, I do. Isn’t that odd?’
‘It’s more than odd, Baron Alstrom. I think I’d better go and talk with Sephrenia. She needs to know about this immediately.’
Sephrenia sat beside the fire in her room with her ever-present teacup in her hands. Flute sat cross-legged on the bed, weaving a cat’s cradle of such complexity that Sparhawk pulled his eyes away from it lest his entire mind become lost in trying to trace out the individual strands. ‘We’ve got trouble,’ he told his tutor.
‘I noticed that,’ she replied.
‘It’s a little more serious than we’d thought. Adus is out there with Count Gerrich, and Krager’s probably lurking around somewhere in the background.’
‘Martel’s beginning to make me very tired.’
‘Adus and Krager don’t add that much to the problems we’ve already got, but that thing, the Seeker, is out there too.’
‘Are you sure?’ She came quickly to her feet.
‘It’s the right size and shape, and that same glow is coming out from under its hood. How many humans can it take over at any one time?’
‘I don’t think there are any limits, Sparhawk, not when Azash is controlling it.’
‘Do you remember those ambushers back near the Pelosian border? How they just kept coming even though we were cutting them to pieces?’
‘Yes.’
‘If the Seeker can gain control of Gerrich’s whole army, they’ll mount an assault that Baron Alstrom’s forces won’t be able to withstand. We’d better get out of here in a hurry, Sephrenia. Have you come up with anything yet?’
‘There are a few possibilities,’ she replied. ‘The presence of the Seeker complicates things a bit, but I think I know a way to get around it.’
‘I hope so. Let’s go and talk with the others.’
It was perhaps a half-hour later when they all gathered again in the room where they had first met the previous day. ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ Sephrenia said to them. ‘We are in great danger.’
‘The castle is quite secure, Madame,’ Alstrom assured her. ‘In five hundred years it has never once fallen to besiegers.’
‘I’m afraid things are different this time. A besieging army usually assaults the walls, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s the common practice, once the siege engines have weakened the fortifications.’
‘After the assaulting force has taken heavy casualties, they normally fall back, don’t they?’
‘That’s been my experience.’
‘Gerrich’s men will not fall back. They will continue their attack until they overwhelm the castle.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘You remember the figure in the black robe I pointed out to you, My Lord?’ Sparhawk said.
‘Yes. It seemed to cause you some concern.’
‘With good reason, My Lord. That’s the creature that’s been pursuing us. It’s called a Seeker. It’s not human, and it’s subject to Azash.’
‘Beware of what you say, Sir Sparhawk,’ Patriarch Ortzel said ominously. ‘The Church does not recognize the existence of the Styric Gods. You are treading very close to the brink of heresy.’
‘Just for the purposes of this discussion, let’s assume that I know what I’m talking about,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Putting Azash aside for the moment, it’s important for you and your brother to understand just how dangerous that thing out there really is. It will be able to control Gerrich’s troops completely, and it will hurl them against this castle until they succeed in taking it.’
‘Not only that,’ Bevier added bleakly, ‘they will pay no attention to wounds that would incapacitate a normal man. The only way to stop them is to kill them. We’ve met men under the Seeker’s control before, and we had to kill every last one of them.’
‘Sir Sparhawk,’ Alstrom said, ‘Count Gerrich is my mortal enemy, but he’s still an honourable man and a faithful son of the Church. He would not consort with a creature of darkness.’
‘It’s entirely possible that the count doesn’t even know it’s there,’ Sephrenia said. ‘The whole point here, however, is that we’re all in deadly peril.’
‘Why would that creature join forces with Gerrich?’ Alstrom asked.
‘As Sparhawk said, it’s been pursuing us. For some reason, Azash looks upon Sparhawk as a threat. The Elder Gods have some ability to see into the future, and it’s possible that Azash has caught a glimpse of something he wants to prevent. He’s already made several attempts on Sparhawk’s life. It’s my belief that the Seeker is here for the express purpose of killing Sparhawk – or at the very least preventing his recovering Bhelliom. We must leave, My Lord, and quickly.’ She turned to Ortzel. ‘I’m afraid, Your Grace, that we have no choice. We’re compelled to resort to the Arts of Styricum.’
‘I will not be a party to that,’ he said stiffly. ‘I know that you are Styric, Madame, and therefore ignorant of the dictates of the true faith, but how dare you propose to practise your black arts in my presence? I am a Churchman, after all.’
‘I think that in time you may be obliged to modify your views, Your Grace,’ Ulath said calmly. ‘The militant orders are the arm of the Church. We receive instruction in the secrets so that we may better serve her. This practice has been approved by every Archprelate for nine hundred years.’
‘Indeed,’ Sephrenia added, ‘no Styric will consent to teach the Knights until approval is given by each new Archprelate.’
‘Should it come to pass that I ascend the throne in Chyrellos, that practice shall cease.’
‘Then the west will surely be doomed,’ she predicted, ‘for without these Arts, the Church Knights will be helpless against Azash, and without the Knights, the west will fall before the hordes of Otha.’
‘We have no evidence that Otha is coming.’
‘We have no evidence that summer is coming either,’ she said drily. She looked at Alstrom. ‘I believe I have a plan that may effect our escape, My Lord, but first I’ll need to go to your kitchen and talk with your cook.’
He looked puzzled.
‘The plan involves certain ingredients normally found in kitchens. I need to be certain they’re available.’
‘There’s a guard at the door, Madame,’ he said. ‘He will escort you to the kitchen.’
‘Thank you, My Lord. Come along, Flute.’ And she went out.
‘What’s she up to?’ Tynian asked.
‘Sephrenia almost never explains things in advance,’ Kalten told him.
‘Or afterwards either, I’ve noticed,’ Talen added, looking up from his drawing.
‘Speak when you’re spoken to,’ Berit told him.
‘If I did that, I’d forget how to talk.’
‘Surely you’re not going to permit this, Alstrom,’ Ortzel said angrily.
‘I don’t have much choice,’ Alstrom replied. ‘We absolutely must get you to safety, and this seems to be the only way.’
‘Did you see Krager out there too?’ Kalten asked Sparhawk.
‘No, but I imagine he’s around somewhere. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on Adus.’
‘Is this Adus so very dangerous?’ Alstrom asked.
‘He’s an animal, My Lord,’ Kalten replied, ‘and a very stupid one. Sparhawk’s promised that I get to kill Adus if I don’t interfere when he goes after Martel. Adus can barely talk, and he kills for the sheer pleasure of it.’
‘He’s dirty and he smells bad too,’ Talen added. ‘He chased me down a street once in Cammoria, and the odour almost knocked me off my feet.’
‘You think Martel might be with them?’ Tynian asked hopefully.
‘I doubt it,’ Sparhawk said. ‘I think I nailed his foot to the floor down in Rendor. It’s my guess that he set things up here in Lamorkand and then went to Rendor to hatch things there. Then he sent Krager and Adus back here to set things in motion.’
‘I think the world would be better off without this Martel of yours,’ Alstrom said.
‘We’re going to do what we can to arrange that, My Lord,’ Ulath rumbled.
A few moments later, Sephrenia and Flute returned.
‘Did you find the things you need?’ Sparhawk asked.
‘Most of them,’ she replied. ‘I can make the others.’ She looked at Ortzel. ‘You might wish to retire, Your Grace,’ she suggested. ‘I don’t want to offend your sensibilities.’
‘I will remain, Madame,’ he said coldly. ‘Perhaps my presence will prevent this abomination from coming to pass.’
‘Perhaps, but I rather doubt it.’ She pursed her lips and looked critically at the small earthen jar she had carried from the kitchen. ‘Sparhawk,’ she said, ‘I’m going to need an empty barrel.’
He went to the door and spoke with the guard.
Sephrenia walked to the table and picked up a crystal goblet. She spoke at some length in Styric, and with a soft rustling sound, the goblet was suddenly filled with a powder that looked much like lavender sand.
‘Outrageous,’ Ortzel muttered.
Sephrenia ignored him. ‘Tell me, My Lord,’ she said to Alstrom, ‘you have pitch and naphtha, I assume.’
‘Of course. They’re a part of the castle’s defences.’
‘Good. If this is to work, we’re going to need them.’
The soldier entered, rolling a barrel.
‘Right here, please,’ she instructed, pointing to a spot away from the fire.
He set the barrel upright, saluted the baron and left.
Sephrenia spoke briefly to Flute. The little girl nodded and lifted her pipes. Her melody was strange, hypnotic and languorous.
The Styric woman stood over the barrel, speaking in Styric and holding the jar in one hand and the goblet in the other. Then she began to pour their contents into the barrel. The pungent spices in the jar and the lavender sand in the goblet came spilling out, but neither vessel emptied. The two streams, mixing as they fell, began to glow, and the room was suddenly filled with star-like glitterings that soared, firefly-like, and sparkled on the walls and ceiling. Minute after minute the small woman poured on and on from the two seemingly inexhaustible containers.
It took nearly half an hour to fill the barrel. ‘There,’ Sephrenia said at last, ‘that should be enough.’ She looked down into the glowing barrel.
Ortzel was making strangling sounds.
She put the two containers far apart on the table. ‘I wouldn’t let these two get mixed together, My Lord,’ she cautioned Alstrom, ‘and keep them away from any kind of fire.’
‘What are we doing here?’ Tynian asked her.
‘We must drive the Seeker away, Tynian. We’ll mix what’s in this barrel with naphtha and pitch and load the baron’s siege engines with the mixture. Then we’ll ignite it and throw it in amongst Count Gerrich’s troops. The fumes will force them to withdraw, temporarily at least. That’s not the main reason we’re doing it, however. The Seeker has a much different breathing apparatus from that of humans. While the fumes are noxious to humans, to the Seeker they’re lethal. It will either flee or die.’
‘That sounds encouraging,’ he said.
‘Was it really all so very terrible, Your Grace?’ she asked Ortzel. ‘It’s going to save your life, you know.’
His face was troubled. ‘I had always thought that Styric sorcery was mere trickery, but there was no way you could have done what I just saw by charlatanism. I will pray on this matter. I will seek guidance from God.’
‘I wouldn’t take too long, Your Grace,’ Kalten advised. ‘If you do, it could be that you’ll arrive in Chyrellos just in time to kiss the ring of the Archprelate Annias.’
‘That must never happen,’ Alstrom declared sternly. ‘The siege at the gates is my concern, Ortzel, not yours. Therefore I must regretfully withdraw my hospitality. You will leave my castle just as soon as it’s convenient.’
‘Alstrom!’ Ortzel gasped. ‘This is my home. I was born here.’
‘But our father left it to me. Your proper home is in the Basilica of Chyrellos. I advise you to go there at once.’
Chapter 6
‘We’ll need to go to the highest point in your castle, My Lord,’ Sephrenia said after the Patriarch of Kadach had angrily stormed from the room.
‘That would be the north tower,’ he replied.
‘And can one see the besieging army from there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. First, however, we must give your soldiers instructions on how to proceed with this.’ She pointed at the barrel. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ she said crisply, ‘don’t just stand there. Pick the barrel up and bring it along, and whatever you do, don’t drop it or get it near any fire.’
Her instructions to the soldiers manning the catapults were fairly simple, explaining the proper mixture of the powder, naphtha and pitch. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘listen very carefully. Your own safety depends on this. Do not set fire to the naphtha until the last possible instant, and if any of the smoke blows in your direction, hold your breath and run. Under no circumstances breathe any of those fumes.’
‘Will they kill us?’ one soldier asked in a frightened voice.
‘No, but they’ll make you ill and confuse your minds. Cover your noses and mouths with damp cloths. That may protect you a bit. Wait for the baron’s signal from the north tower.’ She tested the wind direction. ‘Hurl the burning material to the north of those troops on the causeway,’ she told them, ‘and don’t forget to throw some at those ships in the river as well. Very well then, Baron Alstrom. Let’s go to the tower.’
As it had been for the last several days, the sky was cloudy, and a brisk wind whistled through the unpaned embrasures of the north tower. Like all such purely defensive constructions, the tower was severely utilitarian. The besieging army of Count Gerrich looked oddly ant-like, a mass of tiny men with armour glinting the colour of pewter in the pale light. Despite the height of the tower, an occasional crossbow bolt chinked against its weathered stones.
‘Be careful,’ Sparhawk murmured to Sephrenia as she thrust her head out of one of the embrasures to peer at the troops massed before the gate.
‘There’s no danger,’ she assured him as the wind whipped at her hooded white robe. ‘My Goddess protects me.’
‘You can believe in your Goddess all you want,’ he replied, ‘but your safety is my responsibility. Have you any idea of what Vanion would do to me if I let you get hurt?’
‘And that’s only after I got through with him,’ Kalten growled.
She stepped back from the embrasure and stood tapping one finger thoughtfully against her pursed lips.
‘Forgive me, Madame,’ Alstrom said. ‘I recognize the necessity of chasing off that creature out there, but a purely temporary withdrawal of Gerrich’s troops won’t really do us all that much good. They’ll return as soon as the smoke dissipates, and we still won’t be any closer to getting my brother safely away from here.’
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- Жанр: Героическое фэнтези, Зарубежное фэнтези, Классическая проза
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 440 стр. 8 иллюстраций
- ISBN: 9780007375073
- Дата выхода книги: 29 июня 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
Book two of the classic ELENIUM trilogy. The quest for the jewel of life continues.Time is running out for the poisoned Queen Ehlana. If she is to be saved Sparhawk must find the only cure – a powerful artefact called the Bhelliom – before it’s too late.But finding the rose-shaped sapphire is no simple task. No one has set eyes upon it since it was lost in the heat of a legendary battle.To make matters worse, Sparhawk and his allies are not the only party questing to find the jewel.
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