The Thunder King (Bell Mountain) Read online

  A lone Wallekki rider lifted his voice in song, with a few of his comrades joining in for the chorus. Neither Helki nor Spider understood the language, but they caught the sentiment.

  “A song of glory that might have been,” said Spider, “but wasn’t. The Wallekki have many dreary songs like that.”

  “So what do the Abnaks sing about?” asked Helki.

  A grin split the old chief’s tattooed face.

  “Women!”

  Jack and Ellayne followed the river from a safe distance, traveling in a leisurely way by day and camping by night, with Wytt to watch out for them. They soon used up the rations they’d packed in Gilmy. Jack had his slingshot, but in three days he’d had no luck with it. Wytt found them roots that they could eat, and nuts; and they were lucky enough, the third day, to happen on a pear tree that still bore some fruit. But most of the pears had fallen to the ground and gone bad.

  “If you’re going to miss every time you shoot at a rabbit or a bird, you might as well let me try it,” Ellayne said.

  “Why not? But you won’t do any better.”

  They had a whole afternoon yet to travel, and it looked like rain. All we need, Jack thought: a lot of cusset rain.

  “Where’s Martis?” Ellayne groused. “He should have caught up to us by now.”

  “Unless something happened to him,” Jack said.

  “Don’t!” It was beginning to dawn on Ellayne that something bad could indeed happen to Martis; and it would be her fault. She was ashamed to say so to Jack, but she missed Martis and now she worried about him. “Don’t say that. Martis knows what he’s doing. He can take care of himself.”

  They traveled on. The only one who didn’t seem to mind was Ham; but of course he could eat grass. The children couldn’t—nor did they share Wytt’s taste for worms and insects. It’d serve us right if we wound up eating bugs, Jack thought. But he supposed Ellayne already felt bad enough without him riding her.

  He was daydreaming about Lintum Forest when Wytt suddenly jumped off Ham’s back and screeched.

  “Oh, burn it! Someone’s coming!” Jack said.

  “Someone who?” Ellayne cried; but Wytt didn’t know. He chattered at them to hide, then darted into a thicket of thorny box-bush where only an Omah or a rat could go.

  The land was flat. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

  Three men approached from the west, taking long strides that the children and the donkey couldn’t hope to match. There was nothing to do but stand and wait for them.

  They were tall men, bare-chested, with long leather leggings and dark hair piled up on their heads and held in place with bird bones. They called out to the children in a foreign language and brandished long curved knives at them, obviously warning them not to try to run away.

  “Burn it!” Jack said. “I don’t like the look of them!”

  “It’s all my fault!” said Ellayne. “I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

  Once Jack would have said, “You’re burned right it’s your fault!” Now he gripped her hand and said, “Easy does it! Maybe they won’t hurt us. Try to act friendly.”

  He wrung out a smile and waved to the men, feeling sick to his stomach. The strangers slowed a little, confident now that their prey could not escape. Jack heard them speaking to one another, and didn’t understand a word of it.

  The men walked around them in a tight circle, looking them over, pointing at them, conversing unintelligibly. Jack wondered where Wytt was, and hoped he wouldn’t show himself.

  “Do any of you speak our language?” he asked.

  One of the tall men stopped in front of him. “I do, little bit,” he said. “What you do here with pack donkey? You spies, maybe.”

  “Spies? We’re lost!” Jack said. “We’re just trying to get home, my brother and me. We can’t find our way.”

  The man grinned. “You never go home now! We take you for slaves. Maybe we keep you, maybe we sell you. Bad slaves we sell to Zamzu, and maybe they cook you in a fire and eat you.”

  “If it’s money you want,” said Ellayne, “take us home and our grandfather will pay you in gold. He’s very rich.”

  The man laughed, translated her words to his fellows, and they laughed, too.

  “You got no grandfather. You got no gold. You come with us, and don’t try to run away. You see this sharp knife?” He held it up. “We cut you here”—he drew a finger across the back of his leg, just above the knee—“then you never run again.”

  One of them took the tether from Jack’s hand to lead Ham away. Another gestured meaningfully with his knife. Watched closely by the long-legged men whom they couldn’t hope to outrun, Jack and Ellayne trudged into slavery.

  CHAPTER 26

  Nanny’s Visions

  Then it did begin to rain—not hard, but the kind of rain that got under your skin. The warm summer day turned cool, but not pleasantly cool.

  Ellayne piled up terrors for herself. “What’ll happen when they find out I’m a girl?” she wondered. “Why couldn’t I stay put in Gilmy like Helki told us to?” She had heard certain stories that Jack had never heard, because her brothers had business in the hill country and often came home with lurid tales of Heathen mischief. She was sure they were all true. She was sure these people would separate her from Jack and she would never see him again, would never again see anyone who wasn’t an enemy.

  It rained a little harder. The barbarians talked among themselves and laughed. But then everybody heard a horse’s hoofbeats, and out flashed the long knives. The men stopped and turned to see who was coming after them. The one who spoke Obannese put a heavy hand on Ellayne’s shoulder and said, “Don’t run. Bad for you if you do.”

  Martis saw the three men first, and then the children. He didn’t need to be told they were prisoners. But he recognized the men’s nationality by their hairstyle and thought he might be able to talk to them. He held up a hand and called out to them in Tribe-talk.

  “Men of the Griff, what news? I come in peace.”

  “What peace do we have with any westman?” answered the one guarding Jack and Ellayne. “Who are you to be riding alone in this country we have taken from you?”

  “What quarrel have you with me?” Martis answered. He had a small, sharp knife up his sleeve. He let it slide into his hand. “Have I not told you that I come in peace? I see you have two prisoners. They are my kin, and I wish to ransom them. Why do you have your knives out for me?”

  “Maybe to flay the skin off your bones,” said a second man. “Go away, or we’ll have three prisoners instead of two.”

  “Since when have Griffs refused a ransom?”

  “Enough of this!” said the third. “Let’s slay this fool and take his horse. I know a fine Wallekki horse when I see one. It’s worth more than he would be.”

  Martis was now close enough to act, and he didn’t hesitate. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the little knife went into the chest of the man who stood closest to the children. He fell backward, right at Ellayne’s feet.

  Spurring Dulayl forward, Martis drew his short sword; but his real weapon was his horse. Trained for just such encounters, Dulayl neighed loudly, lashed out with a hoof and sent one of the men reeling; and at the same time, his teeth met in the shoulder of the other, who screamed and dropped his knife.

  The two survivors went running off into the rain. Martis reined in Dulayl and leaped to the ground. Out of nowhere Wytt appeared and stood chattering over the dead man, ready to stab him with his sharp stick if he showed any sign of life.

  “Martis!” cried Ellayne, and threw herself into his arms. He could not recall ever having been embraced before. Then Jack came up and hugged him, too.

  “Are you hurt, either of you?”

  “No, they didn’t hurt us—they only captured us an hour or so ago,” Jack said. “They were going to keep us for slaves. You got here just in time.”

  “Thank Wytt for that,” Martis said. He didn’t have words for what he was feelin
g at the moment. “He came and led me here.”

  “Martis, we’re sorry we ran away from Gilmy—it was all my fault!” Ellayne said. “I wanted to be with the army; I couldn’t bear to stay behind. Please don’t be too angry!”

  He stroked her hair. That was something he’d never done before, either. Had he come to love these children? Was that even possible?

  “Angry with you?” he said. “No, of course not. I was much too afraid for you to be angry! Praise God I found you. I had trouble following your trail in the rain. If either of you ever came to harm—well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

  Jack looked back at the dead man on the grass. “Who were they, Martis?”

  “They’re Griffs, Jack—people who live on the plains in the East. There are about a hundred of them in King Ryons’ army. They are not a cruel or savage people. They wouldn’t have hurt you without cause. But they might have traded you to someone who would. I wanted to ransom you, but they wouldn’t listen. And so a man is dead.”

  “Funny thing for an assassin to say!” he thought—“especially one who’s committed as many murders as I have.” But the Griff’s death troubled him. He didn’t know why.

  “Has our army crossed the river yet?” Ellayne asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard,” he said. “But come—you and Jack get up on Dulayl, and let’s move out of here. Where there’s one patrol, there must be more. Those two men who ran away will send their friends after us.”

  King Ryons’ army, without its king, marched in the rain. The Ghols sang a dolorous song, deep in their throats. It grated on Helki’s nerves. Hawk, who happened to be walking with him, said he liked the rain.

  “This is good land,” he said. He’d learned enough Tribe-talk to carry on a conversation. “It is like my own country, with much good grass for cattle. And yet I have seen no cattle.”

  “People wouldn’t leave their livestock where the enemy could grab it,” Helki said.

  “My people don’t live in cities. They never built any,” Hawk said. “We live in villages with low stone walls around them. But such a great city as Obann, with such high walls—what can any army do to it? Even the Thunder King’s army.”

  They were all the way past Obann by now. Yesterday Hawk led a party of scouts to a high knoll from which they had a good view of the city, and the multitude of enemies surrounding it. The city’s size and strength astonished him more than anything he’d ever seen in his life.

  “Obst says the city’s going to fall. It’s in the Scriptures,” Helki said. “The old Obann, those mighty ruins we saw—that city was destroyed twice. I don’t reckon the Lord thinks much of the strength of cities.”

  What Helki was thinking of was how to cross the river, and where. Some of the spearmen from Caryllick had lived in western Obann; the Imperial River, they said, only widened and deepened as it flowed down to the sea. There were no bridges. “We’ll have to build rafts,” Helki thought, “and pray they don’t tip over when we try to use them.”

  About halfway to Durmurot, he was told, there was a wooded country on the south bank of the river. There they would find timber to build all the rafts they needed. Meanwhile, the scouts found no sign of enemy activity south of the river. Something was going to happen at Obann very soon, he thought.

  Ryons and Cavall plodded north, too far south to catch the rain that fell on Obann.

  They had a bad moment that morning when a great bird spotted them and came prancing up in their direction. Ryons had heard of these birds, but this was the first time he’d seen one. It stood taller than a grown man, with a head bigger than a horse’s head and a huge, heavy beak with a cruel hook to it. It had glaring red eyes, not nice to look at. The bird was much too big to fly, and its wings were much too little, but its powerful legs carried it as fast as any horse could run—and certainly much faster than any boy could run.

  Cavall wasn’t afraid of it. He kept himself between the bird and Ryons, dodging this way and that, barking and growling and showing his teeth. The great bird flapped its little wings and squawked, unable to match the dog’s agility. When its head darted forward like a snake’s, and its beak clamped shut, Cavall was no longer there. After a few minutes of this the bird gave up and trotted away. Cavall didn’t bother to chase it.

  “Mary was right—I should have had a bow and arrows,” Ryons said. He hugged Cavall and gave him a drink of water from the canteen. “How much farther can Obann be? I’ll be a grown man with a beard by the time we get there!”

  Far to the west, Nanny Witkom rode her donkey in the rain. She’d been wise to pack a traveling cape with a hood. But if it got much wetter, it’d be soaked through.

  “I guess any other old lady would’ve stayed indoors today,” she said to the donkey. “I don’t see any young ones out and about, either. We’ve got the whole road to ourselves.”

  She didn’t want to lose a day, even if it meant traveling in the rain. She had a strong sense she ought to get to Obann as soon as possible.

  For Nanny was having visions—visions of the city burning, all Obann going up in smoke and flame, and mobs of people surging in panic through the streets. They were not dreams, nor were they daydreams: she really saw it, somehow, even while her eyes were open and seeing the road, trees, farms, and everything else in the landscape.

  Everyone who believed the prophets knew the city would fall. That was why Judge Tombo hanged the prophets. That was why so many people, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, by twos and threes at a time, had stolen out of the city while they could. Gwyll was a good man, Nanny thought, but a fool for thinking he could defend the city. It was his duty, Rhianna said. “Wrong!” thought Nanny: it was his duty to obey God. He should have left, and taken his soldiers with him.

  Sometimes it seemed she saw the city straight up ahead, with a pall of black smoke over it and lurid flames running all along its mighty walls. And then she would see there was nothing up ahead but more of the road, and peaceful countryside untouched by war.

  Why should the city be destroyed? Nanny didn’t know how to explain it. Obann had shed innocent blood, the blood of prophets: that she knew. But she was sure that it was worse than that, sure that God’s anger ran deep and that she and everyone else would someday understand the reason for it.

  So she pressed on through the rain, anxious to reach the city while it still existed.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Last Prophet

  Lord Reesh dined alone that evening, and his food had no taste for him. He meant to sit alone until he went to bed, but it was not to be.

  “My lord First Prester, there is a disturbance.” It was Gallgoid, in his habit as a lowly sub-secretary, which concealed his true role as Reesh’s confidential aide and assassin. “If you come to the balcony over the Presters’ Porch, you will see what it is.”

  Knowing Gallgoid wouldn’t have troubled him without good reason, Reesh rose with some assistance and went with him down the long, deserted marble hallway. Gallgoid opened the door for him, and Reesh went out onto the balcony.

  Below, a crowd was gathering at the stairs before the Presters’ Porch, one of the main entrances to the Temple. At the top of the stairs someone was speaking to the people. Reesh could have advanced to the rail and looked down to see who it was, but he didn’t want anyone to see him. He stood in the doorway and listened to the speaker’s words.

  “There is no rescue for this city, people of Obann! But if you obey the Lord your God, you shall have your lives. For the Lord says, ‘Open the gates and go out to the Heathen, submit to them, and deliver up your city for destruction; and they shall burn the city, but they shall not burn you.’

  “Hear me, people of Obann! I am the last of the prophets in this city. The Lord has sent you many prophets, but He will send you no more after me. Your rulers killed those prophets, who were the servants of the Lord. Their blood is on this city.”

  Reesh thought he knew that voice. He turned to Gallgoid. “Isn’t that Prester Rhun
wigg?” he said. “I was going to give him the chamber houses of Cardigal.”

  Gallgoid nodded. Reesh listened for another minute before his blood began to boil.

  “Put a stop to that!” he said. “Silence him—but let no one see the Temple’s hand in it. Do it now!”

  “Yes, Excellency.” The assassin bowed, turned, and hurried off.

  Reesh remained where he was, unable to stop listening. Rhunwigg was a scholar, a man of great promise. Now he’d gone mad. Under Orth’s direction, the Temple preached victory; and here was Rhunwigg, undoing it. Reesh clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth.

  “Hear the word of the Lord,” said Rhunwigg: “You call this house the Temple of the Lord, but it is not My temple. Your priests speak lies in My name, but I have not spoken to them, neither have I sent them. It has been many lifetimes of men since they knew Me, nor have they sought for Me. But they have sought after their own desires, and made My people strangers to Me.”

  It was insane, Reesh thought—a prester of the Temple denouncing the Temple. Rebellion! And what was taking Gallgoid so long? Was he going to let the fellow rant all night? Meanwhile people were flocking to the Presters’ Porch. Tombo’s men would be along soon, but they had no jurisdiction on Temple grounds. It was going to turn into a devilish situation indeed.

  Rhunwigg raved on and on, mad as a herring, accusing the Temple of murders, thefts, and blasphemy. What would be the point of building a new Temple in the East, if the people lost their allegiance to the old one?

  But at last another voice was raised, interrupting the self-anointed prophet.

  “Here, now, what’s this? Surrender to the Heathen, and be marched off into the East as slaves? Surrender, when we crush them every time they come close to the walls? Surrender when we’re winning? Not cuss’t likely!”