The Thunder King (Bell Mountain) Read online

  Tormented by such thoughts, she lay awake while Jack and Martis slept nearby. Chillith had given them blankets to sleep in—not very comfortable, but no worse than the Griffs themselves had for sleeping gear. A few yards away a campfire burned low, and two men sat hunched over it, keeping watch over their prisoners. High overhead, the stars shone. Ellayne looked up at them, hungry for sleep but unable to get it.

  Grass rustled in her ear. She flinched, but bit back a cry.

  A pair of tiny hands patted her cheek.Was she dreaming? She turned her head, and by the starlight made out a familiar shape crouching in the grass beside her.

  “Wytt!” It was the softest whisper she could make, little more than a breath; but it was enough for Wytt’s keen ears.

  He clucked and chittered to her. To the sentries it would have sounded like just another insect in the grass; but to Ellayne it was Wytt assuring her that he would always be nearby. The Omah didn’t use real words, but ever since they’d come down from Bell Mountain, Ellayne and Jack had been able to understand him. No one else in all the world could talk to the Little People—except Helki, she remembered now.

  “Wytt, it’s dangerous for you to be here!” she said.

  She was horrified when he suddenly leaped on top of her and let out a shrill cry loud enough to wake the dead and set their teeth on edge. It jolted Jack and Martis out of sleep and all of the Griffs who slept nearby. It brought the two sentries to their feet. Ellayne lay frozen in fear as Wytt screeched out a challenge to his enemies. But the moment the two sentries took a step toward him, he hopped off Ellayne and dodged off into the night.

  The camp went into a commotion. The horses were upset and had to be calmed. Warriors milled in every direction, searching for they knew not what. Torches were lit. And before either Jack or Martis could speak, Chillith strode up and demanded to know the cause of the disturbance.

  The sentries tried to tell him. Jack and Ellayne couldn’t understand their language, but Martis did.

  “It was some kind of demon or a ghost!” they said. “It came out of this boy’s nose and screamed at us, and then it vanished.”

  Chillith glared at Martis. “What was it?” he said. “Speak truth!”

  Ellayne tried to answer but didn’t know what to say, and just stammered; but Martis spoke.

  “Your honor knows of jinns and elves,” he said, “but your honor maybe has not heard of the Little People from ancient times, the hairy ones. It was one of them. They protect my grandsons, who are the servants of God. And that is nothing but the truth.”

  “I have heard of the hairy ones,” said Chillith. “You westmen believe they dwell in the hills where cities used to be, but no one ever sees them. It’s very bad luck to see them.”

  “Your honor is familiar with our folklore.”

  “Just some stories that I heard, many years ago.” Chillith looked down at Jack and Ellayne. “If the little ones protect you, why did they let us capture you?”

  “Your honor knows!” said Ellayne. She’d found her voice and her imagination, fed by fairy tales that her father used to read to her at bedtime. “They wouldn’t fight a battle with big men. That’s not their way. But they can curse a man and make him sick.”

  “And you called one of them here to curse us?” Chillith looked fierce now, much too fierce to lie to.

  “No!” said Ellayne. “I wouldn’t dare! But they don’t come because we call them. If they did, we would have called them already—thousands of them! But they come and go as they please. They’re never far away, and no one ever sees them unless they want to be seen.”

  Chillith thought it over. “I believe you,” he said. “If you could call them, you would have before now. But if they curse me and I get sick, I’ll have the three of you killed. Tell them that!”

  He barked at his men, ordering them back to their blankets. He knew it would be useless for them to chase after one of the Little People. By and by the camp was quiet again, and Chillith himself went back to his bedroll.

  “Good old Wytt!” Jack said. “But what can he do, all by himself?”

  “Scare the juice out of these barbarians, like he just did!” said Ellayne. “They won’t dare harm us now.”

  “Unless Chillith gets a toothache,” Jack said.

  “Ellayne’s right,” said Martis. “The Griffs are very superstitious people—worse than the Wallekki. As long as Wytt doesn’t let himself be caught, they’ll be afraid of him. Someday that may do us some good. We’ll have to stay ready for any opportunity that might come along.”

  He and Ellayne went back to sleep, but now Jack lay awake, thinking of the time a swarm of Omah overwhelmed some outlaws who’d taken the children captive in Lintum Forest. The Omah were small, but they’d killed the outlaws.

  How many Omah would it take, he wondered, to kill a hundred Griffs? He was afraid there weren’t that many Omah in all Obann.

  CHAPTER 34

  A New Marching Song

  Someone donated a cart for Nanny to ride in, and cushioned by blankets and pillows, she insisted she was comfortable. That having been seen to, King Ryons’ army began its march back upriver to Obann.

  The River Road between Obann and Durmurot was a good one, the finest in the land. “It’s a very ancient road, too,” said Obst, “built on top of the Empire’s road.”

  “And if the Heathen want to send ten or fifteen thousand men out here to attack us, it’ll make a nice road for them, too,” Helki answered. “But since we’ll be marching right into their jaws, they might as well just sit back and wait for us.”

  Nevertheless, scouts fanned out for miles ahead of the army in all directions, and the chieftains’ eyes were constantly on the lookout for defensible ground. There wasn’t much of it; the land was flat and civilized.

  Obst and Nanny recited Sacred Songs, and from these the army cobbled together a battle cry and marching song. The verses changed every time they sang it, but the refrain was always the same: “For His mercy endureth forever.” Four thousand voices sang it in a dozen different languages. They sang of the battle on the hill, in which a child taught them strategy, and of the battle in the forest, in which ten thousand Heathen marched into Lintum Forest and only a thousand marched out; and of Helki slaying the Heathen giant Shogg, the son of Sezek. For all those victories and more, they praised their God—and none more loudly than the men who’d invaded the country as Heathen.

  “The Thunder King would laugh,” Helki said, “if he could see this little army marching on Obann and hear us singing.”

  “Then he would be a fool,” said Obst. “But then I think he is a fool, and worse than a fool.”

  Three days’ steady march would get them to within sight of the city. Long before that, the enemy would know they were coming. Captain Hennen was doing his best to draw a map of Obann City and the land around it, so that the chieftains might make some reasonable plan for deploying the army when they got there. He had to rely on his own memory, and others’.

  “But one thing you can count on,” he told Helki. “There’s a ridge of low, wooded hills about a mile to the west of the city, and there we can set up a defense.”

  “If they let us get that close!” said Helki. “Pray we don’t find them waiting on those hills in front of us.”

  Ryons had another long day of trekking, and by now he believed he was at last drawing near to Obann.

  For one thing, the countryside was crisscrossed by lanes and country roads, the smaller ones deeply rutted by farmers’ carts. He passed through peach and apple orchards, passed by cornfields and wheat fields—all left untended for fear of the enemy. Having lived all his life among nomads, he didn’t think to wonder what would happen to people who’d been kept from harvesting their crops. The apples were in season and he had as many as he wanted, and Cavall caught a fat woodchuck for their meat.

  As they hiked along early that afternoon, Ryons munching on an apple, through a landscape dotted with farmhouses and barns, they encountered the
one thing Ryons longed to see above all else—another human being.

  It was an old man with a long white beard, bald-headed, clad in a pair of work-stained overalls, sitting on a white rock at a crossroads. He looked up when Cavall barked at him. Ryons waved to him, and he waved back.

  Ryons hurried to meet him, feeling like he’d run into an old and much-loved friend: that’s how lonely he was. It didn’t occur to him that his Obannese wouldn’t be good enough to be understood, or that the man might not speak Tribe-talk or Wallekki. He hungered for the sound of a friendly human voice.

  He was amazed when Cavall trotted on ahead of him, stopped in front of the old man and wagged his tail ecstatically, and received a pat on the head and a ruffling of his ears. “He must be as lonely as I am!” Ryons thought: still, it was a surprising thing for a dog like Cavall to do.

  “Hello!” Ryons cried. The old man smiled at him.

  “Hello to you, young fellow. That’s a fine dog you’ve got here. A fellow needs a dog like him, if he’s going to go tramping all around the countryside.”

  Ryons stared. The old man spoke to him in just the dialect of Wallekki that he was used to, and spoke it perfectly. It was the last thing he’d expected.

  “Please, sir,” he said, “can you tell me the way to the city of Obann?”

  “You’re already on the way to it, my boy. Just keep going as you’re going, and you’ll get there. It’s just across the river, another two or three days’ walk for you.”

  Ryons gulped. “I didn’t know there was a river! Will I be able to cross it?”

  The old man twitched his shoulders—not quite a shrug. “There was a ferry service,” he said, “but that’s not working anymore, not since the Heathen surrounded the city. They took all the boats, too. You won’t be able to find one.

  “But I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, my boy. When the time comes for you to cross the river, you’ll cross it in style.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “You’ll see. It’s no use my telling you just now, King Ryons.”

  Ryons’ jaw dropped. “How do you know who I am?” he cried. “And who are you?”

  “A servant of the Lord,” the old man said, “like you.”

  “A prophet?”

  “I suppose you could say I was a prophet. If you knew the Scriptures better, I suppose I might say more. But prophet’s good enough for now.”

  “What’s your name?” Ryons asked.

  “Son, you don’t really need to know that, do you?” the man said. “Now, hadn’t you best be moving on? You’ve got a whole afternoon’s worth of walking to do. And while you walk, you ought to say your prayers. For God is pleased with you.” He bent down and scratched Cavall behind the ears. The big dog grinned and wagged his tail.

  “Well, then, I’ll be going,” Ryons said. “Thanks, sir. I wish we could talk some more.”

  “Someday we will,” the old man said.

  Ryons took a few tentative steps down the lane, then turned to wave good-bye. The man waved back. Ryons broke into his regular stride and went farther; but he wanted to see the old man one more time, so he stopped and turned to wave again.

  The man was gone. The land was flat and open, there was nowhere to hide—but he was gone as if he’d vanished in a wink. Cavall looked up at Ryons and whined.

  “I guess if we went back and looked for him, we wouldn’t find him,” Ryons said. “But at least we’re on the right road to Obann, and God is watching over us. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The End of a Long Friendship

  Lord Gwyll addressed the nation’s oligarchs in the assembly hall. Only half of them were present, leaving many empty seats. These men had been in Obann at the beginning of the siege and couldn’t get out. The absentees were in their own towns and cities and couldn’t get in.

  Around him on the dais sat the rest of the ruling council. Lord Davensay sported a shining coat of mail: outdoors in the sunshine, it would dazzle the eye. It was not the kind of armor any sane soldier would take into battle; but then Lord Davensay was no soldier. He was a rich enthusiast. The governor-general had to suppress a grimace every time he looked at him, but Gwyll was more tolerant. “The day will come,” he thought, “when we’ll need all the enthusiasm we can get.”

  “In conclusion, my lords,” he said, “we look forward to the fall and winter with a good confidence in our supplies and in the morale of the populace. Nevertheless, we should devote those months to carefully planning some way to break the siege, or at least interrupt it. We do have two or three plans already in the works—but of course I’m not yet free to speak of them.”

  In truth there was only one such plan, and Gwyll had but little faith in it. Lord Ruffin had ordered the city’s engineers to study the feasibility of digging a tunnel that would pass under the enemy’s siege-works and allow a surprise attack to be made on his machines and supply wagons. Gwyll doubted the city could spare the manpower for such a major project, but there was no arguing with the governor-general: Ruffin’s mind was set on it.

  The oligarchs cheered Lord Gwyll’s report, voted to retain all the members of the council in their posts, and then went home to their townhouses for dinner. Gwyll and the others adjourned to their private meeting room.

  “A very fine speech, Lord Gwyll,” Judge Tombo said. “But do you really think those barbarians will be able to keep up the siege through the winter?”

  “Because we’re so tightly penned up in this city, my lord, I can’t send out spies,” Gwyll said. “I have no way to know how well-prepared the Heathen are, so we must plan for the worst. We must expect them to keep up the siege.”

  “Well, that’s only good sense,” Tombo said.

  Gwyll wondered what was wrong with Lord Reesh. The First Prester had hardly said a word all day, and he didn’t seem to be listening, either. He looked defeated, Gwyll thought.

  “I don’t see how they can keep it up at the rate we’re killing them,” Lord Davensay said. “Every time they come against us, we smash them. I wish I knew how many we’ve killed. It must be rather disheartening from their point of view. Why don’t you pray a plague down on them, Lord Reesh, and put them out of their misery?”

  Reesh looked up from slumping in his chair. “Maybe if they see you, my lord, they’ll all just run away,” he said; and everyone laughed but Reesh himself.

  Tombo took a gentle hold on his friend’s elbow. “Are you all right, First Prester?” he asked. “You look as though you ought to go to bed.”

  Reesh smiled at him—a very feeble smile, Tombo thought.

  “You’re still invited to supper, if that’s what’s troubling you, Judge,” Reesh said. “I’m just tired, nothing more.”

  “Then I’ll see you in a little while,” Tombo said, and with his own hands helped the First Prester into his carriage.

  Once back at the Temple, Reesh summoned Gallgoid. A good servant, Gallgoid, he thought, “never questions anything I bid him do.”

  “Is all prepared for Judge Tombo’s supper?”

  “All, Excellency. I saw to it myself.”

  “I want it to be the finest supper that he’s ever eaten here,” Reesh said, “every morsel exquisitely prepared.”

  “The chef understands, First Prester.”

  “Ah … good. But do you understand, Gallgoid?”

  It was not the sort of question Lord Reesh normally asked his underlings; but just now he found himself very much wanting to know what Gallgoid thought.

  “My lord, I understand perfectly,” said the assassin. “Everything you do, you do for the good of the Temple. But this one thing you do for your friend.”

  “Make everything ready, then,” said Reesh, and dismissed him with a wave.

  Tombo hardly had time to talk over his dinner; he was too busy enjoying it. There were truffles, snails in garlic butter, delicate little squabs, and the very best of Reesh’s wine. For a fat man, the judge liked dainty dishes. But he did comment on
the dessert.

  “My dear man—it’s almost too beautiful to eat!”

  It was a model of Tombo’s own house, made of fine and brittle crystal candy with jellied fruit, chilled, packed inside it. But eat it he did. Only when he’d finished did he lean back in his chair and sigh.

  “I’ve grown too old for women, Reesh,” he said, “but to tell you the truth, if the most beautiful wench in Obann invited me into her bed, I wouldn’t get up from your table!”

  “Hardly an apt metaphor to set before a clergyman, my lord.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t mind me!” Tombo let out a belch, too lazy to suppress it. “Dear me, where are my table manners? I think the wine’s gone to my head—I do feel just a wee bit tiddly. But it is hard to stop drinking it.” He reached for his glass, but then let his hand fall back without it. He giggled. “I say! What about that outfit poor Davensay had on today? He must have paid a pretty penny for it! And him not knowing one end of a sword from another.”

  “Ridiculous,” Reesh agreed.

  “You know, I’m worried about you, old boy,” said Tombo. “You don’t seem to be yourself today. I don’t think I saw you touch a mouthful of this delicious food. Anyone would think you were about to kill yourself!” He laughed at the absurdity of the thought. “But it’s not good for you, all this fasting. A man’s got to keep up his strength.”

  “Your friendship is better to me than buttered snails or wine,” said Reesh. “I hope you know I’ve always treasured it.”

  “Sentiment, my lord? Now I’m really worried! But never mind—I’m sure you know I feel the same. A pair of wicked old men, that’s us.”

  He prattled on for a little longer, then fell asleep in his chair. He snored at first, then stopped. Quite a bit later, Gallgoid came in and felt his pulse.

  “He’s dead, my lord. And I would say, from the look of him, that he had an easy passing, just as you wished.”

  Reesh nodded. “You’ve done well, Gallgoid. He relished every forkful, and your poison was gentle indeed. Thank you.”