The Eyes of the Dragon

135

Still fifty yards from the West Gate, Peter’s band met a party of seven sleepy, confused guards. Most of them had sheltered from the storm in one of the warm Lower Kitchens of the castle, drinking mead and exclaiming to one another that they would have something to tell their grandchildren about. They did not know the half of what they would have to tell their grandchildren about, as it happened. Their “leader” was a manboy of just twenty, and only a goshawk… what we would call a corporal, I suppose. Still, he hadn’t had anything to drink and was reasonably alert. And he was determined to do his duty.

“Halt in the name of the King!” he called out as Peter’s group closed with his slightly larger one. He tried to thunder this command, but a storyteller should tell as much of the truth as he can, and I must tell you that the goshawk’s voice was more squeak than thunder.

Peter was unarmed, of course, but Ben and Naomi both carried shortswords, and Dennis had his rusty dagger. All three of them at once pushed in front of Peter. Ben’s and Naomi’s hands went to their hilts. Dennis had already pulled his dagger.

“Stop!” Peter cried; his voice was thunder. “You must not draw!”

Surprised-shocked, even-Ben threw a glance at Peter.

Peter stepped to the fore. He stood with his eyes flashing moonlight and his beard riffling in the light, chill-edged wind. He was dressed in the rough clothes of a prisoner, but his face was commanding and regal.

“Halt in the name of the King, you say,” Peter said. He stepped calmly toward the terrified goshawk until the two of them were almost chest to chest-less than six inches separated them. The guard fell back a step in spite of his own drawn sword and the fact that Peter’s hands were empty. “And yet I tell you, goshawk: I am the King.”

The guard licked his lips. He looked around at his men.

“But…” he began. “You…”

“What is your name?” Peter asked quietly.

The goshawk gaped. He could have run Peter through in a second, but he only gaped helplessly, like a fish drawn from water.

“Your name, goshawk?”

“My Lord… I mean… prisoner… you… I…” The young soldier fumbled once more and then said helplessly, “My name is Galen.”

“And do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” one of the others growled. “We know you, murderer.”

“I did not murder my father,” Peter said quietly. “It was the King’s magician who did that. He is hot behind us now, and I advise you-very strongly, I advise you-to 'ware of him. Soon he will trouble Delain no more; I promise this on my father’s name. But for now you must let me pass.”

There was a long moment of silence. Galen held his sword up again as if to run Peter through. Peter did not flinch. He owed the gods a death; it was a debt he had owed ever since he had come a shrieking, naked baby from his mother’s belly. It was a debt every man and woman in creation owed. If he was to pay that debt now, let it be so… but he was the rightful King, not a rebel, not a usurper, and he would not run, or stand aside, or let his friends hurt this lad.

The sword wavered. Then Galen let it fall until the tip of the blade touched the frozen cobbles.

“Let 'em pass,” he muttered. “Mayhap he murdered, mayhap he didn’t-all I know is that it’s royal muck and I’ll not step into it, lest I drown in a quicksand of Kings and princes.”

“You had a wise mother, goshawk,” Ben Staad said grimly.

“Yes, let 'im pass,” a second voice said unexpectedly. “By gods, I’ll not strike my blade at such-from the look of 'im, it would burn off my hand when it went in.”

“You will be remembered,” Peter said. He looked around at his friends. “Follow me now,” he said, “and be quick. I know what I must have, and I know where to get it.”

At that moment Flagg burst from the base of the Needle, and such a howl of rage and fury rose in the night that the young guards quailed before it. They backed up, turned, and ran, scattering to the four pegs of the compass.

“Come on,” Peter said. “Follow me. The West Gate!”