Knights of the Crown

Chapter 19

Darkness had long since spread across the ocean, following on the heels of thick clouds. A fresh breeze was ruffling the long swells, but the sailors said there was no storm smell on the wind.

Habbakuk’s Gift sailed sentry around Golden Cup and Windsword. Jemar’s other three ships kept a discreet watch on the homeward-bound minotaurs, honor amply regained but the survivors of three crews crammed like salted fish into the one remaining ship.

Lady Eskaia thanked Habbakuk for all his favors, large and small. She knew she should be more grateful for her being alive, Golden Cup’s being afloat and safe, and the minotaurs’ being homeward bound, but exhaustion made that much gratitude or any other strong feeling beyond her powers. She now knew how Tarothin must feel, after healing all day and half the night, and she lacked even the consolation that she had wearied herself saving lives.

At least it was still in her power to be a gracious hostess, even if she yawned between every fifth word and her muscles felt as if giant ogres had played a game of toss-ball with her. Golden Cup was not yet short of rations or wine, though that day was close at hand. Kurulus said that it might already be at hand if they wished to make port without dry throats or empty bellies.

One of the three boys who’d survived the day fit to stand and serve brought another jug of wine. Eskaia posed it over the cups. Jemar held his up, Kurulus put a hand over his, and Tarothin merely stared blankly at her as if she were performing some ritual from a cult he did not know.

The decision as to what came next lay in their hands. Kurulus now commanded the ship in deed and, if the wounded captain did not take the deck in two days, in law. Tarothin might not have another spell in him for weeks, but what he knew about magic might still save them all without that. And Jemar-

Jemar was as he had seemed, and he had seemed the stuff of champions almost from the first day Eskaia had known him. There was also a grace and even gentleness about him, which stories seldom attributed to champions and still less often to sea barbarians.

“We are safe enough from minotaurs,” Jemar said, spearing a sausage out of the bowl in the middle of the table. Eskaia’s cabin stores had provided the sausage, but the rest of the meal was dried potatoes and vegetables and a tart made with jam and flour that had to be used before the weevils carried them off. At least the wine was strong; Eskaia was sure she had drunk no more than two cups, but her head buzzed as if it was half again that much.

Best drink no more, at least until we have decided what next, she decided, or rather, until I can persuade the others that what I wish is what shall be done.

Kurulus grunted. He seemed to be too exhausted to use words, but his grunt was eloquent of doubt.

Tarothin shook his head. “Jemar is right, and it’s mostly your doing, my lady.”

“How so?”

“That minotaur you did not push overboard-he is the son of Jheegair, one of the two leaders of our honor-seeking friends. Or rather, he was one of the two leaders. His-associate-was too badly wounded to keep the deck, so Jheegair’s voice is the one now obeyed by all.

“He not only owes us a debt for honorable fighting and another for defeating him. He owes us a third debt for his son. I am certain neither he nor any who follow him will be back. Furthermore, I would wager my second best spellbook that he will tell all minotaurs that no one should attack Golden Cup unless they wish the battle to be as hard as it would be against their own folk.”

Kurulus’s mutterings indicated that Tarothin might wager spellbooks, but that he and his crew would be wagering their lives if Golden Cup was left undefended.

Jemar frowned. “I can leave one ship with you until you are jury-rigged again and fit to return to Istar. That will leave me only three ships and they short-manned, which is slight strength for entering Synsaga’s lair-”

“Slighter strength has already done so, or have you forgotten who we sent south?” Eskaia snapped. “Pirvan, Haimya, and a dragon barely out of his childhood are already facing Synsaga, mages, spells, black dragons, treachery, reefs, storms, poisonous snakes, starvation disease-” She ran out of breath before running out the list of perils her friends were facing, and drank half her cup to clear her throat.

The wine was strong indeed; it took a moment for her vision to clear after the wine seared her throat on the way to making a warm, glowing ball in her stomach. She thought Jemar looked ready to take her in his arms again-and indeed, would protest, for those arms were strong and even welcoming, or so she’d dared to think.…

Eskaia stood up, pressing both hands on the table until her fingernails gouged the wood. “Jemar, there is no need to divide our strength. Golden Cup can be left to Habbakuk’s mercy-”

Kurulus rose so violently that the table rocked and his chair crashed backward. “My lady, this ship-”

“-belongs to House Encuintras, not to you or your captain. By law, I am the senior representative of House Encuintras present here. By law and family custom, I may choose to dispose of any piece of House Encuintras property, so long as a fair price is received for it and carried to the house accounts, or the interests of the house are otherwise served. I submit that abandoning Golden Cup serves the interests of House Encuintras.

“Ships can be replaced, Kurulus. Good men are another matter. You and Grimsoar, the captain, the boys, the wounded-they are all good men.”

Kurulus sat down again, his jaw sagging open too wide to let him even grunt. After she was certain he would remain silent, Eskaia turned to Jemar.

“I have called you, to your face and to others, a fair and gallant captain. I now swear this, by Paladine and Habbakuk, likewise by the memory of Drigan Encuintras, the first of our house, and-” she swallowed “-my own honor in every respect-”

She took a deep breath. “I swear that if you, Jemar called the Fair, take all of us aboard your ships and sail with us south to rescue our comrades, I, Eskaia of House Encuintras, will give you my hand in marriage.”

* * * * *

Haimya doubted that her sickness was the lung fever. She could breathe as readily as ever; indeed, it sometimes seemed that she was taking in enough air to make her light-headed. That might be from some other sort of fever, however, and she certainly felt the aches in her joints and the queasiness within that told of some kind of sickness coming on.

She could not easily have finished the journey to Fustiar’s tower on foot, or at least been fighting-fit when she reached it. She dismounted from Hipparan’s back knowing that she owed the dragon as great a debt as she could conceive any human owing to a dragon. What she could not conceive was how to pay it.

“Oh, that will come to you in time, I am sure,” Hipparan whispered in her ear. The dragon had learned to control his speech so that he could, if he wished, make no more noise than a purring kitten.

Haimya subdued her resentment at having her thoughts read, and replied without speech. If you can hear my mind, then you know I was not so grateful during the flight.

“I know that,” Hipparan said. “It was all I could do to keep from laughing, though I suppose it was not at all amusing to you.”

“It was not,” Haimya said shortly. Hipparan had flown toward the tower by a long, meandering route that seemed to retreat two yards for every three it advanced. He flew as slowly as he could and still stay in the air, except sometimes when he dived down to treetop height and gained speed by losing altitude.

Sometimes he even dropped below the treetops, when ravines or cleared land opened before him. Haimya remembered one such passage, with night-walking apes staring glow-eyed from the trees at the dragon and his riders. The apes were mercifully silent, perhaps because they were too astonished at the madness they saw to muster speech.

At least the flight proved that Haimya’s inward queasiness could not be too serious yet. She did not need to drop to her knees and empty her stomach when Hipparan had landed. She merely wished to.

Pirvan kept a respectful distance until the urge had passed, then handed her a water bottle. The last of the spring water went down, bitingly fresh and still cool, and both stomach and head cleared. She patted Hipparan’s neck, then darted aside as the dragon leaped for the sky.

If you see me coming back before you meet Gerik, it is certain that something is awry. Otherwise, the best I can do is avoid provoking the black dragon.

Haimya rather wished that she and Pirvan could hope to do the same. But two humans intruding into his master’s tower might not receive the same charity from the black as another dragon. Their best hope in that case was to persuade the black that Hipparan would take vengeance for harm done to them, and also that they had no designs on Fustiar or any of his work.

The first was the entire truth; the second could be made so. They did not need to ruin Fustiar’s work if they could learn what it was and snatch Gerik free without doing so. What others might do with their knowledge of Fustiar’s work was out of their hands.

Gerik would not be. He would end this night in their hands or she would know why, and from his own lips. Even if he had sworn an oath to Synsaga, it might be the sort of oath that would be considered coerced, and not valid or punishable once he was returned to Istar and free of danger and duress.…

“Time to be off,” Pirvan said beside her.

She nodded and slung on her pack. Was it her imagination, or was some of the lightness in her head now flowing into the pack? Certainly it seemed an easier burden, and when she test drew her sword, it seemed to fly into her hand. The ground was firmer, too, or else she had learned the art of walking across mud like a water strider on a pond.…

* * * * *

The first reaction to Eskaia’s pronouncement was Tarothin’s. He rose from his chair, put a hand on the table to steady himself, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled forward. His fall knocked over his wine cup, and he ended with his nose in his plate.

There followed a lively few minutes as the other three in the cabin tried to heal, or at least revive, their healer. The last thing that any of them wished was to have this fainting spell known all over Golden Cup, let alone Jemar’s squadron.

“I can imagine my people acceding to your wish if we have a wizard to match Synsaga’s mage,” Jemar said. “If they think we lack such, I doubt I could persuade them if I offered every man a woman as fair as you, and every woman a man-”

“-as fine as yourself,” Eskaia finished for him. This had the desired effect of rendering Jemar speechless, and even making him flush until he was almost as dark of face as was normal among sea barbarians.

Under Eskaia’s and Kurulus’s ministrations, Tarothin regained his senses before Jemar regained his speech. The wizard sat up, removed a piece of carrot from his beard, and contemplated the others with a not easily describable look on his round face. It seemed to mingle surprise, amusement, and dismay in roughly equal proportions.

When he spoke, his voice conveyed the same mixture. “My lady, this is not well done. Whatever will your father say?”

“My father is not here,” Eskaia replied. “I am. So is Jemar. So are the ships and men who must sail south to rescue our comrades, or era-or abandon them, without need.”

“My lady, they may well prevail on their own,” Jemar said. “I am not as wise about dragons as our friendly wizard here, but Pirvan and Haimya seemed folk of uncommon shrewdness and strength.”

Eskaia’s look made Jemar actually refuse to meet her eyes. “Good chief,” she said, with ice crackling in her voice. “I hope this continuing to argue does not mean that you refuse my offer.”

A long silence ensued, in which Tarothin seemed to be staring at the ceiling and moving his lips silently. Kurulus made ready to knock him down if he reached for his staff and began a spell, but no magic flowed around them.

“I have prayed,” the wizard said, finally. “I have prayed more like a cleric than a wizard. I cannot find it in me to bless this-this offering of the lady’s self, for such a small-”

“It is not a small purpose,” Jemar said, and his voice was now as chill as Eskaia’s. He held Tarothin’s eyes for a moment, until the wizard looked away. “It is a perilous one, but not small, and highly honorable.

“My lady. I accept your bargain.”

“But-blessing-the law-” Tarothin stammered.

“The law is satisfied by my being of age,” Eskaia said. “I have been of age to be married with my father’s consent since I was fifteen, and without it since last year.

“As for a blessing-I cannot imagine that among five sea barbarian ships, there are no clerics whatever. Who is your priest of Habbakuk?”

“She’s actually a priestess,” Jemar said. “I am sure she will not make any great objections, once we satisfy her that this is a free agreement between two lawful persons-”

“No, and by the time we rescue our friends, Tarothin may have come around to a wiser point of view,” Eskaia said.

Everyone stared again. She laughed. “Jemar-we wed after our friends are rescued, or I know their fate. I will not demand that we succeed, only that we try.”

Jemar once again seemed deprived of speech.

“Jemar, I would not tempt you to steal my-to steal the bait without springing the trap. And as for fearing treachery-whatever you are, it is not the kind of fool who would do something that surely would bring the wrath of House Encuintras, all its friends, and perhaps even Synsaga himself on you. Your own people would have long since dropped you overboard with shackles at your feet, were you such a fool. So I trust you.”

Jemar’s first sound was laughter. When he regained his breath, he shook his head.

“My lady. Is there perhaps sea barbarian blood in House Encuintras? You know us as if you had been reared among us from a babe.”

“It is only three generations since we sailed our own ships,” Eskaia said. “Even today, some of our highest officers began in the forecastle. So the sea and those who voyage upon it are not a bound and sealed scroll to us. Far from it.”

They summoned Grimsoar One-Eye to put Tarothin to bed, relying alike on his strength and his discretion. Jemar gave Eskaia the betrothal gift of a single black pearl from the band that circled his left forearm.

Then they settled down to finish the wine and the plans for the voyage south.

* * * * *

From where Hipparan had landed them, Pirvan and Haimya had an easy route to the ruined castle. Two visible moons rode the night, and the patchwork of clouds let much of their light through. Also, the tower rose high, and last of all, a blue glow from its base made a mark that a one-eyed man could have followed.

Pirvan thought he felt a trickle of breeze colder than any jungle ought to spawn, blowing from the tower. Of course, they were climbing up out of the rank, steaming lowlands as they approached the castle. Perhaps he only felt a mountain breeze, after so long in the jungle that he had forgotten what coolness felt like.

And perhaps not.

It also eased their way that the girdle of outposts around the castle seemed slighter than they had expected. One camp appeared all but abandoned, and there were gaps in the sentry line wide enough to allow a troop of mounted knights to ride through.

The guards’ sloth was no small relief to Pirvan. He had it in him to cast the Spell of Seeing the Expected perhaps once more, and that not for long. If they could reach the tower without exhausting that resource, he would be grateful.

“We could have used a little more such sloth this morning,” Haimya whispered.

“Let’s not rejoice until we know the reason for the sloth,” Pirvan reminded her.

“Fear of the mage?”

Pirvan shrugged.

“Then I will not rejoice. I will not halt either.”

The thief touched her cheek. It seemed hotter than usual, but not hot enough to account for such a witling’s remark. He hoped it was only some sickness that responded to healing, not some living creature of the jungle devouring her from within.

Hoping was as futile as halting. They moved on. Presently they were at the base of the castle’s wall.

“There are ruined portions farther around to the right,” Pirvan said, “but they are most likely to be guarded. Also, from unruined battlements, we can see the whole inside at a glance.”

“Why not just ask if I’m fit to climb?” Haimya snapped.

“I assumed you were,” Pirvan said. “If you are not-”

Haimya shook her head. “I think so.”

“If you fall because you’ve overtaxed your strength, I’ll spit on your grave,” Pirvan said, with a light punch to her shoulder. “Ho, for a little healthy night work.”

Haimya sounded other than healthy by the time they were on the battlements, but her breathing had eased and her pallor likewise before Pirvan finished hauling up their gear. Then they turned to study the castle.

The blue glow no longer flickered from the base of the tower, but a campfire showed one band of sentries at a gate on the far side of the courtyard. Much of the wall to their right was ruined, and at the far end was a dim, hulking shape.

“The dragon?” Haimya whispered.

Pirvan’s night-sight groped through the darkness, and he shook his head. “Too big. More likely his northern lair. Remember, Hipparan said he had two.”

The next moment, a shift of the night breeze made the identification certain. “Either a dragon’s lair or a slaughterhouse,” Pirvan added, after he was done gagging. “But no dragon, or I think Hipparan would have mentioned him.”

“Unless he was as frightened as I am now, and forgot,” Haimya said.

“I hope you and Gerik have a swarm of children, and you teach true courage to them all,” Pirvan said.

She seemed bemused.

“True courage,” he added, “is going on when you know all the dangers. The other is ignorance or folly. Teach them or breed it into them. The world needs it.”

He had meant to ease her mind with an assurance that he would not stand between her and Gerik if they wished to remain betrothed. Now he wondered if he had chosen the right time, place, or words. Perhaps this eerie place was unsettling his wits, or at least tangling his tongue.

“I will fret myself about children when I know who their father will be,” Haimya replied, and now it was Pirvan’s turn to stand mute. Before he regained speech, Haimya had pulled up the rope and lowered herself over the inner side of the wall.

* * * * *

Gerik Ginfrayson enjoyed sitting by the fire for more than its warmth. Half of the others seated around it were the muted slave-soldiers of Fustiar’s guard. They might not like him, but they would not mutter sly asides or open insults in hopes of provoking him to draw steel. They could only kill him and, so far, they seemed to fear their mage master too much to do that.

Furthermore, the fire kept the darkness at bay, and the smoke of the half-sodden wood did the same to the insects. It even fought a rearguard action against the reek of the seldom-cleaned midden pits and the dragon’s lair-tonight, mercifully without its occupant.

Best of all, the fire was a good long way from the entrance to the tower, which was now guarded by a creature who might be kin to half a score of races but seemed to belong to none of them. Nor was his creation, perhaps in defiance of the gods, the most disquieting thing about him.

He went about armed with a Frostreaver. As far as Gerik knew, Fustiar had made two that endured, a trifle smaller perhaps than the true Frostreavers but otherwise altogether as potent. They seemed immune to even the heat of a fire, let alone the heat of the jungle, and he had personally seen each of them sever a man’s body at a single blow.

He would be prepared to bet on the guard creature and his Frostreaver against anything short of a dragon. He would even be prepared to watch that bout, from a safe distance. He was not prepared to calmly approach the seven-foot-tall sentry with his six-foot-high axe except on Fustiar’s direct command-and for some nights past, the mage had been far too flown with wine to command Gerik or anybody else to do anything.

Gerik hoped the mage would end his bout of wine guzzling tonight, if not before the black dragon returned, then before the dragon awoke and required orders. Something was troubling the beast, putting him out of temper, enough that he’d already killed one of the mutes and crippled another in a burst of wordless rage. The black seemed to have ample command of human speech, but not a word had he spoken to explain what was troubling him.

Which made matters no easier for Gerik. He no longer cared much what he learned about anything here on the Crater Gulf. He wanted to flee with what he had already learned, and a dragon turning rogue, uncontrolled even by an evil mage, was a potent barrier to flight.

It was then that the minotaurlike bellow of the guard creature echoed around the walls, bringing everyone to his feet, most weapons to the ready.

* * * * *

Haimya was as surprised as Pirvan to see the stairs up into the tower apparently unguarded. Nor did they encounter any magical protections as they approached the base of the eighty feet of ancient stone. The shadows hid them from casual glances, and almost from each other.

The guard-maid now felt as if a hot stone were lodged in her throat. She could breathe well enough, but swallow only with difficulty. Also, the aches were growing; joints muttered dark protests with each step. Much worse, and she would be more hindrance than help to Pirvan, and she would have to trust him to deal fairly with Gerik-

No, she did trust him. Pirvan was not the problem. Her own doubts and Gerik’s were the problem. So she had to go on, and if it was her last breath that she used to settle matters with her betrothed, then so be it. Her spirit would rest in peace, and his conscience would be clear, and Pirvan-

It was then that the man-shape stepped out from under the stairs, rising to its full height. Seven feet or more, with the stature and shape of an ogre, but a beard more like a dwarf’s, clothing that was of all races and none, and in its hands-

Haimya swallowed. She had never seen one, but no sellsword of her experience failed to study tales of every weapon she might face. Sellsword work sometimes lay far to the south, so there was no dearth of accounts of Frostreavers.

The head was smaller than she had expected, but the bluish sheen was precisely right, and the handle was longer than she was tall. In the hands of that-of Fustiar’s creation, or else of some god so mad that his or her name was never spoken, even by the servants of the Dark Queen-in those vast four-fingered hands, it would be a terrible weapon.

Which made it all the more important to deal with this guard, apparently the only one on the tower, before he could alert the camp. That might bring Gerik; it would certainly bring armed men of whose allegiance there could be no doubt.

“One of us up the stairs, the other wait until our friend follows?” Pirvan suggested. “If the one on top doesn’t go too high, jumping’s safe. Our friend doesn’t look like he can stand much of a fall.”

That meant putting the creature between them, but unless he had eyes in the back of his head or a second weapon, such a situation had its advantages. She prayed briefly that whoever had contrived this being had left out intelligence, then drew her sword.

“Chance for who goes up?” She put her hand around the blade halfway up, Pirvan put his hand above hers, and so they continued. It was Pirvan whose hand ended up, waving in the air.

“Sorry. Always use your own sword for this.”

The bow they’d captured from the first sentry post had an almost dry string and six arrows that probably would fly true, at least to a target the size of the axe wielder. Haimya took those as well as her sword, and whispered a final suggestion to Pirvan.

“If Gerik comes out before me, don’t wait. From on top, I can discourage pursuers with the last arrows, then get out of the tower on the other side.”

This made a number of assumptions that Pirvan did not share, about the likely quality of their opposition. However, this was the wrong time to argue the philosophy of combat.

Haimya slung the bow, crouched like a runner, then sprinted for the stairs. Pirvan was only two paces behind her at first, then let the distance open.

As Haimya’s boots struck the stairs, the creature threw back its head and cried out. The sound seemed flung toward the moons themselves, and echoed around the courtyard and from the stones like the cry of a minotaur impaled or burned alive.

Then Pirvan fell back, drawing his dagger as the creature lumbered around to the base of the stairs. The Frostreaver shimmered-or was it glowing with a light of its own? — then the creature raised it over its head and charged at Pirvan.