Theido and Durwin sat near the fire, smoking long wooden pipes filled with aromatic leaves that Durwin cultivated. They sat in silence, all talked out. Puffing occasionally and grunting, they turned matters over in their minds.
Alinea slept comfortably, stretched upon Durwin’s low wooden bed. She had said little all day, but Quentin thought her emerald eyes spoke eloquently of the turmoil taking place within; they seemed to weep inside for the anguish she felt for her king. Still, she had put aside her own torment and had found kind words to say to Quentin in that moment when they were together. For that, Quentin had declared to himself, he would gladly give his life for hers at the first opportunity.
Durwin rose at last and stretched. He knocked his pipe gently against the stone mantel and turned to roll himself in his cloak in some farther corner, leaving Theido to his thoughts. Quentin, who dozed fitfully, thought he heard Durwin utter a shrill whistle and thought it extremely odd behavior so late at night.
Then he heard it again and stirred himself out of his half sleep, pushing himself up on his elbows. Durwin had stopped where he stood, listening. Theido, his chair tilted back, resting his long legs against the fireplace, stopped puffing and listened too.
The whistle sounded again, this time closer. Theido got up and went to the door and slipped out. A cold draft washed over Quentin, rousing him more fully awake. Another signal was heard, this time closer to the cottage; it was Theido replying to the sign.
Alinea was awake now and standing near Durwin. She bent her head and spoke to the hermit, but Quentin could not catch the words. He strained every sense to hear what was taking place outside. All he heard was the crackle and pop of the fire upon the hearth and his own breathing.
Then he became aware of the soft, muffled shuffle of snow-dampened footsteps returning to the cottage. Theido ducked in, rubbing his hands for warmth. “Voss and his bushmen have a visitor for us,” he explained. “They are bringing him along.”
No sooner had he spoken these words than a soft knock was heard at the door. Theido threw it open, and there stood the squat leader of the rangers. Behind him was another man held by two of Voss’s companions.
“Come in, Voss,” said Theido. “Let us see your catch.”
The hefty ranger strode into the cabin and waved his charge forward.
“Trenn!” the queen cried as her warder tumbled into the light. He swayed uncertainly upon his feet and looked about to topple over, but Voss put out a hand to steady him. Durwin whisked up a stool and sat the man down.
“We watched him as soon as he entered the wood. When he appeared to be heading in this direction, we took him,” said Voss casually.
“Trenn, what are you doing here?” Alinea’s eyes searched his face for a clue. “Has Jaspin discovered our game?”
“As I fear, my lady,” said Trenn, rising to his feet and bowing. “I came to warn you all: Jaspin has put Harriers on your trail. I prayed to every god I knew that I would not come too late.”
At the mention of the dreaded trackers, even Voss’s broad face blanched. “This is dire news,” he said.
Alinea’s hand went to her face. She shot a hasty look to Theido, who stood unmoved. “There is our answer,” said Durwin.
“How long ago did this take place?” asked Theido with forced calm. He spoke very carefully and smoothly, not allowing his voice to betray the alarm he felt.
“I saw them enter the postern gate this morning about midday, conducted by several of Jaspin’s knights. There was also much activity through the main castle this morning—knights and nobles, some from as far away as the flatlands. Rumor has it that Jaspin had called a hasty council to catch those who helped you escape.”
“What? The man is mad,” said Theido.
“That was just a ruse,” explained Trenn. “Prince Jaspin accused two nobles of lending aid to your escape. I got it from the jailer—the new jailer”—a quick chopping gesture showed what he meant—“that two nobles were being held—Lords Weldon and Larcott.”
“The snake!” said Theido quietly. “He is using my escape to alter the Council of Regents. I suppose he wasted no time in having two new regents enfranchised. Do you know who took the others’ places?”
“I cannot say positively, but I think Sir Bran and Sir Grenett,” answered Trenn. “It was said that Lord Holben stood up to him—saved the lives of the lords. The prince wanted them bound over for treason. Lord Holben appealed to the king’s law.”
“He saved their lives for the time being and probably lost his own,” replied Theido.
“Does Jaspin dare so much?” asked the queen, shocked that such bold effrontery should take place in her own court. “I had no idea.”
“We cannot help Weldon and Larcott,” said Theido sadly. “We must help ourselves now.”
“Trenn, how did you get here without the Harriers seeing you?”
“I left before they did and, as I knew where I was going, had little trouble in making good time, though I must have nearly killed my good horse.”
“They will have followed you,” pointed out Voss. “It’ll make their task so much easier.”
“I hope I have more wits about me than that,” sniffed Trenn. “I had some of my men ride out with me to muddle the trail. They rode with me a way, and then each split off to a different direction. It was all I could do in the time I had.”
“Good,” said Theido, jumping forward. That will buy us some time.”
“My comrades and I can purchase some more,” said Voss. “I will put them to work at once confounding the trail. We can lead the fiends through the forest for days.”
“These are Harriers, not ordinary hunters,” said Theido.
“And we are not ordinary game,” boasted Voss. “They will neither see us nor learn our trick until you are well away from here. Still, we will not be able to stop them forever.”
“We could fight them,” suggested Trenn.
“And die trying,” replied Theido. “No, our only hope is to stay ahead of them until we cross the Wall. I doubt if even the Harriers can find us once we have crossed over into the Wilderlands.”
“So it is!” replied Durwin triumphantly. “You admit it now. We are going to Dekra.”
“Yes, we are going to Dekra. You have your way, my friend. And it is our only hope. We go to Dekra . . . and we leave tonight.”
14
From Durwin’s cottage in the heart of Pelgrin Forest, under night’s dark wing, the unlikely rescue party set forth on their quest. They little dared hope for the success of their labors, nor scarce conceived a plan by which they might obtain their goal of freeing the king from the malignant magician Nimrood.
In a fortnight upon the trail, heading north and east through the farthest reaches of Pelgrin and the low foothills of the Fiskills, they had encountered no other living soul. This, however, was accounted as an auspicious tiding, for it meant they had not seen that which they feared most to see, and that which kept them all peering over their shoulders when they thought no one else was watching—the merciless Harriers.
Led by Durwin and urged on by Theido, they pursued a course that would skirt the treacherous mountains and lead them instead across the hilly woodland regions of Askelon, bending eastward toward Celbercor’s Wall.
Once over the wall—traversing the formidable obstacle would be an ordeal all its own—the rescuers would make straight for the Malmar inlet, crossing it on foot over the ice. Safely across Malmar, they would then have a brief rest in the small fishing village of Malmarby, one of the few outposts of human habitation in all of the vast peninsula of Obrey. They would have time, it was hoped, to replenish their supplies and to obtain a guide who could lead them to Dekra.
Quentin had at last learned that Dekra was not a person but a place: the forgotten city of a mysterious people long ago vanished. No one now remembered what had happened to the city’s strange inhabitants, but they had left behind a fantastic dwelling that had grown rich and wonderful in song and legend,
although few men had actually ever been there to see it. Fewer still believed its existence, regarding it as a mere glittering fancy spun by bards and minstrels to tickle the ears of the gullible. Some, though, insisted that it did exist and was a very evil place where men were not welcome—those daring to search for it never returned, so it was told.
“Never heard of Dekra, my boy?” questioned Durwin. His bushy eyebrows arched in a quizzical look when Quentin ventured to ask him about it. “No, I don’t suppose you have. The priests of Ariel do not willingly admit that it exists. Well, you shall have a chance to do something most men never do: you shall see it with your own eyes.”
“Is it a very bad place, then?” asked Quentin. “Is that why Theido did not want to go there?” He was riding Balder abreast of the hermit, having left his usual position at the rear of the train, just ahead of Trenn. Quentin liked to ride ahead with Durwin when the trail permitted.
“No,” Durwin replied, after a pause in which he tried to think of the correct words. “Dekra is not an evil place, though many believe that it is. It is one of the seven ancient places of power on the earth. And though the power is mostly gone now, remnants still linger for those who know where to look.
“But it is not an evil place—that is not why Theido argued against us going. He knew it to be a dangerous journey and a long one for nothing if we should fail to obtain what we seek.”
Quentin had had to content himself with that answer, for Durwin would say no more about the ruined city or their reason for going there. Yet the hermit knew more than he would say—Quentin sensed it in his voice. There was something Durwin avoided telling, and Quentin, his youthful curiosity piqued, itched to find out what it was. So he listened constantly for any clue that Durwin or Theido might let fall at mealtimes or around the fire at night. He was most often disappointed.
Theido spurred the party forward at a relentless pace, never stopping long or allowing a fire by daylight. Nights were short by design—stopping at dusk, sleeping only a few hours, and then moving on well before dawn. Quentin had mastered the art of sleeping in his saddle when he could no longer keep his eyes open. In fact, he had found himself rapidly becoming a better horseman all round. He reveled in the new skills he was developing day by day and the woodland lore he was learning from Durwin, who proved to be an inexhaustible source of knowledge.
Quentin could now name thirty different kinds of tree and shrub. He could tell the tracks of every forest creature that stirred in the dead of winter. And he could read the weather signs with some small degree of accuracy. Quentin considered this far more useful information than anything he had learned in the temple, although he had to admit his temple training was useful in other ways.
For these and other reasons, arising mainly out of the kinship formed of a group dedicated to a common purpose, Quentin felt a deep sense of joy in the rigors of the journey, forgetting easily the innumerable discomforts of living on the trail. He had also quite nearly forgotten the danger dogging their every step—the Harriers. Yet there seemed to be nothing to indicate the presence of the hated trackers.
Theido, however, continually dropped behind the group, leaving it for hours at a time to watch and wait, scanning the forest for any sign that might indicate they were being followed. Each time he returned to report that he had seen nothing of the Harriers. But each day he grew more worried.
“I am afraid they are waiting for us to run out into the open,” Theido told them one night. The sun had just gone down, and they sat around the fire, wrapped in their cloaks and thick robes made of animal skins that Durwin had furnished.
“You don’t think we might have eluded them?” asked Trenn hopefully. “That Voss and his rangers put them off the trail?”
“No,” Theido replied gravely, shaking his head from side to side. “I fear not. Voss may have put them off for some short time, and by the fact that we are still awake and moving, I’d say that was likely.
“But each day I feel their presence stronger. I seem to sense the fingers of their minds reaching out for us, drawing closer. They may not have found our trail as yet, but they are closing upon us.”
“Why do you think they will wait for us to break and run into the open?” asked Alinea. “Why would they not take us in the forest?”
Theido again shook his head. “That I do not know. There is something preventing them, though what it is I cannot say. But once we are free of the forest, which we shall be in two days’ time, they will have no trouble seeing us. The hills beyond offer little cover in the summer, and less in the winter, for those who need shelter from preying eyes.”
“Yet if we can but cross the hill country as far as the Great Wall, we will then have a chance,” interjected Durwin. He alone looked hopeful.
“We still have to find a way to cross the Wall,” reminded Trenn. “That could take many days. Unless my horse sprouts wings, I do not see how we are to cross.”
“There must be a way,” said Alinea. “The Wall is old; perchance there is a breach . . .”
“Pray there is no breach, my lady,” said Trenn. “Any advantage we receive, our captors will benefit the more.”
“Harriers are not our captors,” said Quentin oddly. The others stopped and looked at him, raising their heads from the fire to see his face. He wore an expression of fear and wonder, his dark, round eyes looking beyond the circle of light thrown out by the campfire. “These men are.”
Theido was the first to follow Quentin’s gaze outward and to see what he saw: a ring of faces—almost invisible in the darkness but for the firelight glinting in large eyes—circled them in. They were surrounded.
15
The Jher village, if that word could be applied so loosely, was as nearly invisible as could be made. Shelters for fifty or more people had been erected out of limbs and branches, bark and leaves. Each was dug into the earth and was shaped like a shallow dome. If there had been no people standing in front of these simple abodes or peering from the narrow slits of doorways, Quentin could have passed right through the rude village and never had an inkling he had been there.
The footprints in the snow on the ground told a different story.
The snow had been compacted by the constant tramping of many feet. It appeared that the Jher had been living in this part of the forest all winter, as indeed they had. Hunting and trapping in the northernmost reaches of Pelgrin, they had established a winter camp in the forest. They would move again in the spring when they returned to their usual habitat —the Wilderlands of Obrey.
Seeing them now in the full light of day, Quentin wondered what he had feared from them in the long night when they had stood at the edge of the campfire’s light. All night they had held their strange vigil, faces shifting slightly as one would go and another appear to take his place. He had imagined all sorts of horrible tortures at their hands. But looking now at their broad brown faces, their finely formed yet sturdy features with their clear, untroubled brown eyes, which seemed wise and all-knowing, Quentin was ashamed he had thought ill of these simple folk.
When dawn had come, the leader, who called himself Hoet, had advanced to the campfire where Theido and Durwin stood waiting to receive them in whatever manner they presented themselves—in war or in peace. Then, quite inexplicably, Durwin had startled everyone, not least the Jher tribesmen, who hooted in amazement, by speaking a few halting words in their lilting, singsong tongue.
Durwin had turned to the others, then addressed them sheepishly. “I am sorry, my friends. I should have told you all sooner that we had nothing to fear from the Jher. But I thought it best to remain on our guard, for it has been long since I encountered any of them about in this part of the forest, and many changes have taken place in the world. I could not be certain what reception we faced. But it is as I hoped—they welcome us as friends.” He had then faced the Jher leader and spoken again in that strange tongue.
Hoet had signaled excitedly to his companions, about a dozen in all, and they had procee
ded to murmur together in astonishment at the wonder they beheld—a stranger speaking their language.
And wonder it was. The Jher were a wandering people. Simple, uncomplicated, their ways had not changed much in a thousand years. They built no cities, erected no altars, neither read nor wrote their own language. They were older even than the hated Shoth; older than the land, for all anyone knew. Where they had come from was a mystery long past discovering—one of the many which, like bark grown thick around an ancient oak, surrounded these shy people.
They were seldom seen in the region of Askelon anymore. Civilization forced them farther and farther north and east into the Wilderlands. Few city dwellers ever encountered the gentle Jher, but the peasants living close to the northern edges of Pelgrin glimpsed them on rare occasions. Sometimes they would not be seen in a region for a generation or more and then suddenly appear just as before.
The Jher were a peaceful, timid people who had no enemies, except the brutal Shoth whom they hunted like the deer they lived upon. It was a marvel these unassuming beings could fight at all; they did not seem capable of conflict. But they had among their surprising traits an inbred hatred for the last of their ancient enemy.
Durwin sat in consultation with Hoet, the Jher chieftain, in the midst of the small clearing. Quentin could tell the going was very slow. The same words were repeated over and over, with many gestures and lapses into confused silence. But Durwin seemed to be making headway. He nodded more frequently and seemed to ask questions less often. All this Quentin wildly inferred, since nothing in the Jher speech seemed like words in the ordinary sense. It was more a random uttering of forest sounds and nature imitations than real language. And yet, to Quentin’s ears it was strangely beautiful and even moving, for in it he heard the gentle sounds of the earth as it moved through the seasons, of trees in the wind, of water slapping stone, of animals playing. The language of the Jher was filled with the beauty of the forest and its creatures.