one Scarpa, crept into the imperial compound and abducted
Queen Ehlana, leaving behind a demand that Sparhawk give up
the Bhelliom in exchange for the safe return of his wife.
‘Following the recess Dean Aldus has been so patiently awaiting,
I will take up Prince Sparhawk’s reaction to this new development.’
PART ONE
Berit
CHAPTER 1
A chill haze was rising from the meadow, and thin clouds had
drifted in from the west to obscure the cold, brittle sky. There
were no shadows, and the frozen ground was iron-hard and
unyielding. Winter was inexorably tightening its grip on the
North Cape. Sparhawk’s army, girt in steel and leather and thousands
strong, was lined up along a broad front in the frost-covered
grass of the meadow near the ruins of Tzada. Sir Berit sat his
horse in the center of the bulky, armored Church Knights watching
the ghastly feast taking place a few hundred yards to the
front. Berit was a young and idealistic knight, and he was having
some difficulty with the behavior of their new allies.
The screams were remote, mere rumors of agony, and those
who were screaming were not actually people – not really. They
were no more than shades, the scarce-remembered reflections
of long-dead men. Besides, they were enemies – members of a
cruel and savage race that worshipped an unspeakable God.
But they steamed. That was the part of the horror Sir Berit
could not shrug off. Though he told himself that these Cyrgai
were dead – phantoms raised by Cyrgon’s magic – the fact that
steam rose from their eviscerated bodies as the ravening Trolls
fed on them brought all of Berit’s defenses crashing down
around his ears.
‘Trouble?’ Sparhawk asked sympathetically. Sparhawk’s black
armor was frost-touched, and his battered face was bleak.
Berit felt a sudden embarrassment. ‘it’s nothing, Sir Sparhawk,’
he lied quickly. ‘It’s just -‘ He groped for a word.
“I know. I’m stumbling over that part myself. The Trolls aren’t
being deliberately cruel, you know. To them we’re just food.
They’re only following their nature.’
‘That’s part of the problem, Sparhawk. The notion of being
eaten makes my blood run cold.’
‘Would it help if I said, “better them than us”?’
‘Not very much.’ Berit laughed weakly. ‘Maybe I’m not cut
out for this kind of work. Everybody else seems to be taking it
in stride.’
‘Nobody’s taking it in stride, Berit. We all feel the same way
about what’s happening. Try to hold on. We’ve met these armies
out of the past before. As soon as the Trolls kill the Cyrgai
generals, the rest should vanish, and that’ll put an end to it.’
Sparhawk frowned. ‘Let’s go find Ulath,’ he suggested. ‘I just
thought of something, and I want to ask him about it.’
‘All right,’ Berit agreed quickly. The two black-armored Pandions
turned their horses and rode through the frosty grass
along the front of the massed army.
They found Ulath, Tynian and Bevier a hundred yards or so
down the line. ‘I’ve got a question for you, Ulath,’ Sparhawk
said as he reined Faran in.
‘For me? Oh, Sparhawk, you shouldn’t have!’ Ulath removed
his conical helmet and absently polished the glossy black Ogre-horns
on the sleeve of his green surcoat. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Every time we’ve come up against these antiques before, the
dead all shriveled up after we killed the leaders. How are the
Trolls going to react to that?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You’re supposed to be the expert on Trolls.’
‘Be reasonable, Sparhawk. It’s never happened before.
Nobody can predict what’s going to happen in a totally new
situation. ‘
‘Make a guess,’ Sparhawk snapped irritably.
The two of them glared at each other.
‘Why badger Ulath about it, Sparhawk?’ Bevier suggested
gently. ‘Why not just warn the Troll-Gods that it’s going to
happen and let them deal with the problem?’
Sparhawk rubbed reflectively at the side of his face, his hand
making a kind of sandy sound on his unshaven cheek. ‘Sorry,
Ulath,’ he apologized. ‘The noise from the banquet hall out
there’s distracting me.’
‘I know just how you feel,’ Ulath replied wryly. ‘i’m glad you
brought it up, though. The Trolls won’t be satisfied with dried
rations when there’s all this fresh meat no more than a quartermile
away.’ He put his Ogre-horned helmet back on. ‘The TrollGods
will honor their commitment to Aphrael, but I think we’d
better warn them about this. I definitely want them to have a
firm grip on their Trolls when supper turns stale. I’d hate to end
up being the dessert course.’
‘Ehlana?’ Sephrenia gasped.
‘Keep’ your voice down!’ Aphrael muttered. She looked
around. They were some distance to the rear of the army, but
they were not alone. She reached out and touched Chiel’s bowed
white neck, and Sephrenia’s palfrey obediently ambled off a
little way from Kalten and Xanetia to crop at the frozen grass.
‘I can’t get too many details,’ the Child Goddess said. ‘Melidere’s
been badly hurt, and Mirtai’s so enraged that they’ve had to
chain her up.’
‘Who did it?’
‘I don’t know, Sephrenia! Nobody’s talking to Danae. All I can
get is the word “hostage”. Somebody’s managed to get into the
castle, seize Ehlana and Alcan and spirit them out. Sarabian’s
beside himself. He’s flooded the halls with guards, so Danae
can’t get out of her room to find out what’s really happening.’
‘We must tell Sparhawk!’
‘Absolutely not. Sparhawk bursts into flames when Ehlana’s
in danger. He’s got to get this army safely back to Matherion
before we can let him catch on fire.’
‘But -‘
‘No, Sephrenia. He’ll find out soon enough, but let’s get
everyone to safety before he does. We’ve only got a week or so
left until the sun goes down permanently and everything – and
everyone – up here turns to solid ice.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Sephrenia conceded. She thought
a moment, staring off at the frost-silvered forest beyond
the meadow. ‘That word “hostage” explains everything, I
think. Is there any way you can pinpoint your mother’s exact
location?’
Aphrael shook her head. ‘Not without putting her in danger.
If I start moving around and poking my nose into things, Cyrgon
will feel me nudging at the edges of his scheme, and he might
do something to Mother before he stops to think. Our main
concern right now is keeping Sparhawk from going crazy when
he finds out what’s happened.’ She suddenly gasped and her
dark eyes went very wide.
‘What is it?’ Sephrenia asked in alarm. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know!’ ~APhrael cried. ‘it’s something monstrous!’ She
cast her eyes about wildly for a moment and then steadied herself,
her pale brow furrowing in concentration. Then her eyes
narrowed in anger. ‘Somebody’s using one of the forbidden
spells, Sephrenia,’ she said in a voice that was as hard as the
frozen ground.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. The very air stinks of it.
Djarian the necromancer was a cadaverous-looking Styric with
sunken eyes, a thin, almost skeletal frame, and a stale, mildewed
odor about him. Like the other Styric captives, he was in chains
and under the close watch of Church Knights well-versed in
countering Styric spells.
A cold, oppressive twilight was settling over the encampment
near the ruins of Tzada when Sparhawk and the others finally
got around to questioning the prisoners. The Troll-Gods had
taken their creatures firmly in hand when the feeding orgy had
come suddenly to an end, and the Trolls were now gathered
around a huge bonfire several miles out in the meadow holding
what appeared to be religious observances of some sort.
,Just go through the motions, Bevier,’ Sparhawk quietly
advised the olive-skinned Cyrinic Knight as Djarian was dragged
before them. ‘Keep asking him irrelevant questions until Xanetia
signals that she’s picked him clean.’
Bevier nodded. ‘I can drag it out for as long as you want,
Sparhawk. Let’s get started.’
Sir Bevier’s gleaming white surcoat, made ruddy by the flickering
firelight, gave him a decidedly ecclesiastical appearance,
and he heightened that impression by prefacing his interrogation
with a lengthy prayer. Then he got down to business.
Djarian replied to the questions tersely in a hollow voice that
seemed almost to come echoing up out of a vault. Bevier
appeared to take no note of the prisoner’s sullen behavior. His
whole manner seemed excessively correct, even fussy, and he
heightened that impression by wearing fingerless wool gloves
such as scribes and scholars wear in cold weather. He doubled
back frequently, rephrasing questions he had previously asked
and then triumphantly pointing out inconsistencies in the priSoner’s
replies.
The one exception to Djarian’s terse brevity was a sudden
outburst of vituperation, a lengthy denunciation of Zalasta – and
Cyrgon – for abandoning him here on this inhospitable field.
‘Bevier sounds exactly like a lawyer,’ Kalten muttered quietly
to Sparhawk. ‘I hate lawyers.’
‘He’s doing it on purpose,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Lawyers like to
spring trick questions on people, and Djarian knows it. Bevier’s