The Fugitive Prince (Bell Mountain) (41 page)

As she turned to walk on with them, she looked back over her shoulder, right up into Gallgoid’s eyes.

“Sin no more, Gallgoid,” she said in a deep, womanly voice, “for the Lord is with you.” And then, instead of falling asleep as she usually did after making a pronouncement, she toddled away with Abgayle’s hand on her shoulder to guide her.

Gallgoid stood rooted to the spot, amazed. How could the girl have known his name?

“The Lord is with me?” he marveled. Surely the Lord knew what he was, and what he’d done—“Lord Reesh’s favorite poisoner and a traitor to the Temple: that’s who I am!” And how was he supposed to sin no more? Well, he could start by not assassinating Merffin and the others—always presuming that would be a sin.

And while he stood and wondered, Prester Jod’s servants were already taking the boards down from Orth’s doors and windows, opening the windows to let in the air, and asking neighbors where they might find Orth’s own servants. The neighbors always asked, “What? Has the prester come back?” To which the answer always was, “Not yet, but we think he’s going to.”

Jod himself had to return to the Great Hall, where the conclave had begun to debate whether to rebuild the Temple or to resort to the New Temple of the Thunder King. Those who spoke in favor of the New Temple had been coached secretly by Merffin Mord, who didn’t wish his own name to enter into the discussion.

“Surely all Obann wants peace,” orated Prester Peredyr from the chamber house of Trywath, “and now we have a chance to get it. And have we not already heard of the seminary’s heroic labor to make the Old Books available to every chamber house? What could better serve that purpose than if there were, someday, a great chain of chamber houses stretching all the way out to the Great Lakes in the East? How better could we bring God’s word to all those Heathen peoples?”

It was a good argument, and many were the heads that nodded to it, but not all. A few of the presters from Obann City scowled openly.

“The Thunder King has proclaimed himself a god,” one of them spoke up. “Any Temple that he builds is a monument to blasphemy. Besides, the Temple of the Lord belongs here in Obann, where it’s always been.”

“How now, my learned friend,” Peredyr answered. “Have you not heard there is a different Thunder King? The old Thunder King, the one who made war against us unprovoked—he died in the winter. That’s what I’ve heard, from people who should know. And besides, don’t you know the old Thunder King conquered all those Heathen by first conquering their gods and taking those false gods away from them? In that he did us a service. Why, he’s done half our work for us already!” And for this the speaker received a light applause.

But Prester Jod had done some coaching, too; and now one of his own allies, Reciter Kyne from Obann City, spoke.

“My lords and brethren,” he said, “surely this matter of the Temple is not the business that ought to be concluded first. Whether we rebuild our own Temple, or accept our enemy’s New Temple, the first thing we must do is to choose a new First Prester.”

“There’s already a new First Prester in Silvertown!” someone interrupted.

“Yes—an interim First Prester,” Kyne said. “The only way a First Prester has ever been chosen is by election, in a proper conclave. As for this man in Silvertown, who knows if he was ever ordained? If he wanted to be First Prester, he should have attended this conclave. Have any of you seen him?”

Jod smiled. There was no counter to that argument. Before the day was out, the conclave voted to table all other questions until it could elect a new First Prester. And that, thought Jod, would take some time—several days, at least.

Three archers on the left flank of the army, three more on the right: that was how Helki had arranged it.

They had to climb up trees to get the best angle for a shot at the mardar. Helki had chosen a place where the army would either have to hew a path of its own or string itself out along a narrow path. Half the army would pass by the archers, he reckoned, before they saw the mardar. A few of Wusu’s scouts had to be quietly disposed of, too, before the bowmen could take their stations. But already most of Wusu’s scouts were deserting him, going out on patrol and not coming back. The army groped its way through the forest like a blind man in a strange room full of furniture. “They never learn,” Helki said to himself. “Lintum Forest is no place for an army.”

So the Heathen host toiled along, and when Mardar Wusu came in sight, obligingly perched atop a white horse, Helki blew on a leaf between his thumbs and made a noise like the biggest, boldest blue jay ever hatched.

Six arrows flew.

Two of the mardar’s Zamzu, marching along beside him, fell down dead. One arrow buried itself in the haunches of the mardar’s horse. One glanced off a helmet, and one stuck into the shaft of a spear.

But one pierced the mardar in the fat part of his upper arm. With a roar of pain, he toppled off his horse—wounded, but very far from being killed.

By then Helki’s men had already dropped out of the trees and escaped, to rendezvous later at a predetermined place. So none of them saw Xhama, the chief of the Hosa, lift up his spear and shield or heard him cry, “Enough! Hosa, my brothers, we have had enough!”

Instead of rushing into the woods after the archers, the Hosa turned and charged back the way they came. Instantly the Zamzu perceived that the Hosa were deserting, and they tried to stop them, hacking with swords, flailing with clubs. The fierce fighting was better than anything Helki would have dared to hope for.

The Hosa wielded short spears, good for throwing or for stabbing. Just now they had need of both. The Zamzu were ferocious, but the Hosa’s action took them completely by surprise. The cowhide shields weren’t much protection, but they were enough. Rallying behind their chiefs, with good discipline, the Hosa fought their way clear of the army and rushed in good order to the east. Their plan was to march until they were out of the forest; and they knew they could travel faster than the Zamzu. The Thunder King’s favorites gave chase for half a mile, but then trooped back.

They found Wusu on his feet again. Someone had had to push the arrow all the way through his arm and break off the head and fletching before the shaft could be removed. New he waited for someone else to bandage him.

“Mardar, the Hosa cowards have deserted us,” said one of the Zamzu chiefs. “What shall we do?”

Wusu showed his teeth at him. “Do?” he cried. “I’ll tell you what to do, you dog! We go on!”

So they went on, with half an army and no scouts worthy of the name, into the heart of Lintum Forest.

Chapter 49

How the King Was Captured

All day long Ryons sat in the thicket, waiting for Helki to come back for him. The day grew hot and flies tormented him, but he kept his promise and didn’t venture out. Beside him, Cavall curled up and slept. He couldn’t see Angel, but he knew she was somewhere overhead.

“This is even harder than being a slave!” he thought. He would have loved to take a nap, but it was soon too hot to sleep. He wished he knew how, like Obst, to burrow so deeply into prayer that he lost touch with his surroundings. He did pray for Helki’s safety, and for the friends he’d left behind in Obann, and wondered if someday he would hear God answer him. But all he heard now were the cicadas endlessly droning in the treetops. Time crawled by so slowly that he began to lose his awareness of it.

He was jolted to his senses when Cavall suddenly sprang to his feet and growled under his breath, with his hackles rising all the way down his back. Angel screeched—just once. Ryons’ pulse began to race, although he neither saw nor heard anything to be afraid of.

“What is it?” he whispered, as if Cavall could answer him. He laid a hand on the dog’s neck and felt its whole body tense.

Then, at last, he heard something—men’s voices, and heavy bodies thrashing in the underbrush. Helki’s rangers wouldn’t make such noise! And whoever it was, they were coming closer and closer to the thicket.

Could it be the enemy, chasing Helki? But Helki wouldn’t lead pursuers anywhere near this place. He’d lead them into a swamp, or someplace even worse.

Ryons felt sick. The Thunder King had vowed to put out his eyes. Where was the man of God when you really needed him—the man who’d led him out of the palace, past all the guards? “God,” he prayed silently, “haven’t You promised to protect me?” And he remembered Obst saying, “God never lies, my boy. He always keeps His promises.”

Louder and louder: they were all around him now, practically on top of him. Cavall knew better than to bark or growl, but he was ready for a fight. He showed his teeth.

And then, as if called up by magic, a big black man suddenly appeared in front of him and peered straight into the thicket, right at him, and started calling out in a jumble of incomprehensible language. Men called back to him. All Ryons could do was to stand up and take a firm hold of the loose skin on the back of Cavall’s neck. Other men were coming quickly, and if Cavall attacked them, they would kill him.

By ones and twos they came, pointing at him, jabbering. Ryons had a few men like these in his army, but just now he couldn’t remember where they came from. He wondered if these men had killed Helki. He felt like he was falling, feet first, into empty space.

But then, for no reason he could think of, Ryon’s fear slid off him like a discarded cloak. He stood and waited for whatever was going to happen next, as calm as if the man of God stood right behind him.

Finally came a man who had a headdress of white plumes. The others made way for him until he stood right in front of Ryons.

“Who are you?” he said in Tribe-talk. His accent was very strange, but Ryons understood him.

As a slave among the Wallekki he’d learned to lie as naturally as he would draw a breath. It saved him many a beating. But this time—he couldn’t have told you why—something made him tell the truth.

“I am the king of Obann, chosen by God,” he said. “My name is Ryons, and this forest is part of my kingdom. Who are you men, and why are you here?”

The big man stared at him, amazed. It was a moment before he could answer.

“I am Xhama, son of Qoqa, chief of the Red Regiment among the Hosa people, and these are my warriors. We came to this accursed forest to hunt the king of Obann and to kill a man named Helki. But now we have fought against our mardar and his Zamzu and separated ourselves from his army.” He paused, thinking. Ryons didn’t interrupt him.

“We have fought against the Thunder King today,” Xhama said, “and for that we shall all be killed. Our home is very far from here, and the enemies along the way are more than the sands of the desert. And yet we have captured the king of Obann, where the mardar failed!”

So these men were Hosa, Ryons thought, like his friend Hawk, and Hawk’s brothers.

“Chieftain,” he said, “if you’re wise, you will let me capture you. My army serves the living God. That’s why your armies are destroyed whenever they come into Lintum Forest. But you can serve God, too, and live.”

Xhama started to laugh, but stopped short.

“You are truly the king of Obann?” he said. “And yet you tell us this, your enemies?”

“Swear an oath to me,” said Ryons, “and be my friends.”

Xhama’s men began to mutter. He turned and made a speech to them in a language that was full of pops and clicks. Whatever he said, it provoked them into a babel of discussion that went on for several minutes. Finally Xhama quieted them.

“What about this man, this Helki, who attacks us like a devil and gives us no rest?” he demanded of Ryons.

“Helki is my general and the servant of God. He’s the master of this forest. If you make friends with me, he’ll be your friend, too.”

Xhama thought, hard. Death was the only reward for any rebellion against the Thunder King, and he and his men had earned it. If he surrendered the king to Wusu, the mardar would take the credit for having captured him and someday soon the Hosa would be massacred—probably as soon as the army got back to Silvertown, if it returned at all.

“It seems we must choose between death at the hands of the mardar, or death in this forest,” he said to his warriors. “Or else we must surrender to this boy, this king of Obann, and become his men. Perhaps then we can finish off the Zamzu and be revenged on them.”

The warriors all looked at each other, puzzled and surprised.