Roland Green - Knights of the Crown

“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.