King.
―Sire,‖ he said, his voice hoarse, ―there is nothing I can do—‖
―How dare you tell me that!‖ Zared yelled. ―There must be something you can do.‖
Silence, and the physician turned his eyes away from the agony in Zared‘s face.
Zared fell to his knees before the physician. ―Good sir, I apologise. I…I…‖ The
physician looked at Zared, his eyes compassionate. He reached out and took Zared‘s hand
between both his own.
―Sire, I have done all I know how, but there is nothing I can do for her as there has been
nothing I have been able to do for the scores of people who have been caught outside
during…well, caught outside.‖
He paused, and when he resumed his voice was a whisper. ―Sire…sire…did you know
that the Queen is some three months gone with child?‖
33
Of Sundry Travellers
Winter had firmed its grip on the northern plains of Tencendor. Above the Azle, frost
carpeted the ground until mid-morning, and the clouds that billowed over the distant Icescarp
Alps were heavy with snow.
The plains were empty, save for the old white horse that plodded unceasingly northwards,
two figures blanketed against the cold on his back.
Drago and Faraday had travelled faster than they had a right to, but Drago was not
surprised. The Sceptre had done this to him previously, pulling him south through the
Minstrelsea forest towards the Star Gate at close to three times normal speed. Now he wondered if the staff did a similar thing, pulling them north, north towards whatever awaited them at
Gorkenfort. Drago hoped he would learn some of its secrets in Gorkenfort. He spent many an
hour in the evening, seeking refuge from Faraday‘s silence, in contemplation of the strange
notations that wound about the ancient rosewood. Wondering.
Neither Drago nor Faraday could deny that Belaguez aided their journey as well. An
ancient relic Belaguez might be, but he could still remember the commands of a rider, and he
could still place one hoof in front of the other.
Once Drago had decided to bring the horse with himself and Faraday, he‘d simply
vaulted onto the stallion‘s swayback, leaned down to give Faraday a helping hand up, adjusted
the packs behind them (on which the lizard happily curled), and gently tapped his heels against
Belaguez‘s sides.
The horse had heaved a great sigh, but had obediently started forward, although Drago
was never able to persuade him to anything more strenuous than a slow, shuffling trot. But
Belaguez could keep that up for hours at a time—even through the Demonic Hours. Drago and
Faraday had wondered at his seeming inability to be affected by the Demons, so like their own
strange immunity, and they wondered if his mind was so senile the Demon‘s ravages and
many-fingered mental cruelties made no difference to him.
Or was it whatever aided them?
So, together with the influence of the Sceptre, and the senile mental murkiness of the old
horse, Drago and Faraday travelled ever further north towards Gorkenfort.
Faraday spent most of the long days on Belaguez‘s sharpridged spine huddled against
Drago‘s back. She‘d given up trying to persuade Drago from Gorkenfort. The knowledge that it
was Urbeth they were going to meet calmed her somewhat. Maybe Urbeth knew who the girl
was, and might say how they might help her.
But deep within her Faraday knew exactly who the girl was. She was that which was lost.
If not the Enchanted Song Book, then something very, very close to it, and Faraday had to find
her, find her as soon as she could. The girl was too young to be left so lost. She needed to be
loved and hugged and sung to sleep, and most of all she needed to be protected, and told that no
harm would ever come to her again.
At night the urge to go the mountain was almost unbearable. Faraday could now hear the
child cry on every breath of wind, and when she lay down her head to pretend sleep, Faraday
could feel the child‘s low sobs vibrating through the very earth itself.
She sounded so lost. So alone. Whatever power Noah and the craft had infused her with,
it combined with Faraday‘s frustrated maternal instincts to make the urge to get to Star Finger
almost overwhelming.
Faraday could not drive away the image of the darkarmoured knight leaning down
driving the blade into the child‘s throat, and the remembrance of the dark spurt of blood into the
night made her feel sick at odd moments of the day.
But the child was not the only problem that ate at Faraday‘s serenity. She had promised
Noah she would be Drago‘s friend and his trust, and she had promised she would go north with
him. None of this she had minded, for she had thought Drago an enigma she would enjoy
learning to know better.
She had not thought to fall in love with him. Like him, yes. Love him? No, and thrice no
again.
Faraday had endured enough of love, and of love‘s betrayals. She would not let herself
love Drago. She would not do it!
But it was hard when his eyes crinkled at her with such humour, and when his warmth
enveloped her in the tent at night. It was hard when Drago left no doubt hanging between them
how he felt about her, and it was hard remembering the feel of his weight on her body and the
taste of his mouth on hers when they lay under the stars and the Demons‘ terror.
But Faraday was determined. Both would eventually live happier lives if she was strong
and kept him away. They would live better lives. They would…they would…
So day by day Belaguez plodded indefatigably north across featureless landscape—and
through the wind and snow-swept bones of those who had died during the infected hours.
The riders on his back rarely spoke.
One day, a black speck in the sky spotted them, and reported their presence to the
Demons.
No man or woman in either the Strike Force or the regular ground force could account for
it beyond attributing it to sheer courage and strength of will, as refugees from the desolate and
raped landscape of western Tencendor found their way to Carlon. Sometimes they would
scamper or creep to one of the bolted gates in ones and twos, sometimes in groups of a score or
more. Many of them fell victim to the increasing number of crazed animals the badger had
grouped about the walls and approaches to Carlon, but many made it through.
As yet, the number of animals was not great enough to stop all passage to and from
Carlon.
Theod, for Zared took little interest in life beyond his palace these days, ordered that the
guards and gate-keepers should let in the refugees once every two hours—the last opening to be
just before the commencement of one of the Demonic Hours. The gates could not be left open
constantly because of the creatures that now attacked whenever they saw an opening, and two
hours meant there was enough of a build-up of desperate people outside to make the opening
worthwhile.
Once the grey haze had settled over the landscape and roofs of the town the gates were
opened for no-one, no matter how desperately—or cunningly—they pleaded and bargained.
Theod spent much time with them, finding out where they‘d come from, and how they‘d
managed to escape demonic infection during their journey. To Theod‘s surprise—and hope—the
refugees not only came from the relatively close provinces of Avondale and Romsdale, but from
the much more distant southern and western parts of Ichtar; many even from Zared‘s erstwhile
capital of Severin.
―How did you know how to keep safe from the grey fingers of the Demons?‖ he asked,
and always the response came the same, and always with flat voice and apathetic eyes.
―We watched how our neighbours died or were captured by madness, and we observed.
We learned. Fast.‖
Then there would be a pause, and a spark would appear in the refugee‘s eyes. He or she
would ask whether Caelum was about to rescue them, or if the Star Gods prepared to do battle
with the Demons, or if there was any hope, please, my lord, any hope at all?
And Theod would smile and pat their shoulders, and direct them to shelter and food, and
he would not answer any more of their questions.
After two weeks of talking to new arrivals, Theod made his way to the palace.
Unlike the streets and tenements of Carlon, which were necessarily becoming crowded
from the constant arrival of refugees, the palace halls and corridors largely echoed only with the footfalls of ghosts. There was the palace secretary, and a few servants, and DareWing slouched
dark-browed in a shadowed corner, and a few nervous men-at-arms manning the doors, or Strike
Force members outlined in windows.
And there was Herme.
Herme kept an almost constant vigil outside the room where Zared sat with Leagh. Or