Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 30

"The temple was built around the cavern," said Tawl. "When that collapsed, it brought everything down with it."

Jack shook his head. He could think of nothing to say. Beneath the rubble, beneath the granite blocks and the dust and the rock, the seers lay dead. Bound to their stones, unable to save themselves, they had been crushed by the very temple they served. It was an appalling way to die. The seers had been as helpless as newborn lambs.

"Everything comes with a price," whispered Jack"Everything."

"I know, Jack. I know." Tawl's voice was soft, close to breaking. "All you can do is learn to live with it."

Hearing the knight speak, Jack knew he wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one who had a past filled with regrets, uncertainty, and guilt.

"He! He! He!" A high, cackling voice broke the silence. "It's gone mow. No coming back. He! He! He!"

On the west side of the temple, sitting on the bottom step, was an old woman. A basket by her feet, a thin shawl around her shoulders, she slumped oddly to her right. Jack moved toward her. It was the same woman who had shown them the way in last night, perhaps even unlocked the door. As he drew nearer, he saw that the right side of her face was slack. She was still laughing away, but only the left half of her mouth opened and only her left eye blinked. Her right eye was closed. Jack's gaze fell down to her lap, where her right hand emerged from the shawl. Curled up in a fist, it was brown and shriveled like a corpse. The fingernails were long and curved and dug into the dried-out flesh of her wrist.

The old woman looked straight at Jack. "Did what she wanted, didn't you?"

"Who? Who wanted me to do this?"

The old woman rocked back and forth on the step. "She did."

Jack was trembling. "Who's she?" The woman didn't answer. Jack ran to her. He put his hands on her shoulders "Who's she?"

The woman just rocked and cackled.

Jack began to shake her. She knew something. Something about him, about why he had to come here, what it all meant. He had to know what she knew. He would shake the answers out of her.

"Jack! Leave her alone." It was Tawl, placing a restraining hand on his arm. "Come away."

Jack stopped. He was out of breath. The old woman looked frightened. He looked into her good eye. It was a bright, watery gray. "Please, please, tell me what you know. Why did you help us? Why did you show us the way?"

The old woman began to rock back and forth again. Her gaze shifted out to sea, focusing far away on the horizon. Realizing he would get no answers, Jack turned away from her. "Let's get off this island," he said to Tawl. Together they rounded what was left of the temple's back wall. Just as they fell under the shadows of the west face, the woman's voice rang out one last time: "He! He! He! The seers knew. They wanted to die. That's why they didn't tell. He! He! He!"

They found two skiffs on the island's north beach. Tawl wanted to carry one of them overland to the southern sh.o.r.e, but Jack just wanted to be off, even if it meant extra rowing.

His mind was an ants' nest of emotions, suspicions, and thoughts. Somewhere, somehow everything was connected: the old woman, Lam, Captain Quain's story, the past, the present, the future. He needed to find the thread that ran through them, the one thing that joined him to the seers and Marod's prophecy. If only he didn't feel so tired and heavyheaded. He needed sleep as much as answers.

Being on the skiff didn't help. The water was calm, but even the slightest swell sent his stomach reeling. The rain was good, though. Cool and fresh on his hot, shaking skin.

After a while, Tawl took the oars from him and rowed on his own. He looked worried. Jack began to drift in and out of consciousness. After a while, a thought occurred in his bleary brain. "What about The Fishy Few, Tawl? What if they didn't wait?"

"They'll be there," said Tawl. "Unless the ship sank to the bottom of the ocean, they'll be there."

Besik looked at Maybor. "If we don't withdraw to the east now, they'll have us flanked within the hour." Maybor was sweating. Blood pumped wildly in his ears. Although Besik shouted, he could barely hear him. The sounds of battle were deafening. Blades clashing, hooves pounding, drums beating, screaming-it was enough drive a man insane. The sun had gone in and thick dark clouds had come down from the mountains, bringing the sky that much nearer to the earth. Maybor felt trapped: everything was closing in on them. He'd just come from leading a charge on the east gate. It had hardly any effect on the blackhelms: they just kept pouring out. Nothing could stop them. The Wall was outnumbered three to one. Kylock's Royal Guard were converging upon them from the west, to the north were Bren's mercenaries, and to the east the blackhelms were working to cut off Highwall's only escape route. With the mountains behind them, they'd soon have nowhere to go.

Maybor took a swig of brandy from his flask. Looking down at the battlefield, it was easy to see the maroon and silver of the Wall. A circle of black and blue was closing around them. They'd be cut off within minutes. Despite what Besik said, Maybor had a feeling it was already too late.

"They'll be expecting us to make a run to the southeast." Besik nodded. "I know, but we haven't got a choice. We can't go south. Look at those clouds gathering in the west The winter storms are coming. We withdraw to the mountains and we'll all be dead within three days."

"We won't even make it to the east" Maybor was growing impatient. Time was running out "Our men are tired. They've been fighting solidly for four hours. The blackhelms are just getting started-they're fresh, eager, and they're the most highly trained soldiers in the north. Why do you think Kylock is sending them through the east gate, not the south or the west?" He answered his own question. "Because they're there to slaughter us the moment we withdraw."

"Don't you think I know that, Maybor? Don't you think I've taken that into consideration? To me it's a choice between the southern mountains or the blackhelms, and I'll tell you now, I'll take dying from battle wounds over dying from exposure any day of the week." Besik was shaking. Deep lines of tension creased across his brows.

Maybor offered him his flask. "You're a brave man, Besik."

Besik took the flask. "This is what we'll do. I'll have Hamrin sound the retreat. Bowmen, heavy cavalry, and two battalions of foot soldiers will clear a path to the southeast. The light cavalry and the remaining foot soldiers will bring up the rear. As they're pulling back, I'll have them flank out to the south. That way, we won't risk being cut off from the mountains as well as the east."

It was a good plan. A fair plan. Once again, Maybor found himself admiring Besik. he always listened, always considered. Always gave his best. "I'll take the southern forces."

"It's a dangerous command. You'll be the last on the field."

"Don't you think I know that, Besik?" said Maybor softly.

Besik smiled at the irony. His once jet-black hair was shot with gray. He wore the same clothes as his soldiers except for his one vanity of a beaten-silver belt. "The south is yours. I'll lead the east."

The two men clasped hands and minutes later the retreat was sounded.

Maybor rode down onto the field. The noise at battlelevel was overpowering: it cut through thought, making it impossible to concentrate. The ground had been churned to mud. Red mud. Men and horses lay dead in it, their bodies missing limbs, hands, even heads. Maybor knew better than to look at the corpses-he'd mastered soldier's blindness in his youth. The living were what counted.

Already the retreat had started. The maroon-and-silver were slowly edging back. The kingdoms pressed against them from one side, the blackhelms from the other. Only the middle of Bren's forces-made up of mercenaries, untrained, and partially trained men-was weak. Maybor had to admit that Kylock was a clever strategist: he had made the middle weak on purpose, to encourage the Wall forces to come forward. The nearer they got to the city, the easier they were to outflank.

Maybor began barking out orders to the men. The foot soldiers would retreat ahead of the cavalry, and he wanted to give them a good head start. Besik was over on the east side of the field, claiming the majority of the men for the eastern a.s.sault. It wasn't going to be a simple withdrawal; the commander of the Highwall forces was going to have to blaze a path through the duke's guard. Maybor wished him luck.

The minute the foot soldiers withdrew from the front line, the Wall cavalry began to break up. The blue-and-gold of the kingdoms was pressing hard from the west. They were trying to force the Wall east. Maybor, sweating, tired, and feeling very old, sent a silent prayer to Borc for protection. Not for himself, but for Besik: he was leading two-thirds of the Highwall forces into territory marked for slaughter.

Maybor could no longer see what was going on in the east. Already the division between his troops and Besik's troops had started. And already a company of blackhelms were riding in from the north, intent on driving a wedge into the breach.

Looking to the south, back over what little remained of the Highwall camp, and the foothills and mountains that lay beyond, Maybor checked on the progress of the retreating foot soldiers. The men were running for their lives. They had just reached the first line of foothills beyond the camp. Good. It was time to give the order to the cavalry. As Maybor swung back on his horse, he caught a glimpse of blue and gold in the southwest. The kingdoms' forces were closing in.

Maybor gave the order to the horn-blower. Three notes sounded: two high and short, one low and long.

It was during the last note that Maybor spotted his son. Midway down the western slope, high atop a chestnut stallion, sat Kedrac directing his troops. His horse was decked in blue and gold, but his colors were Maybor's own. Red and silver. The colors of Maybor's coat of arms. The colors of the Eastlands.

Maybor felt a terrible, crushing pain in his heart. Pride was mingled with the suffering. His son was leader of the kingdoms' forces.

Kedrac looked magnificent: young, determined, in controlA score of men surrounded him like courtiers around a king. Then, as Maybor watched, Kedrac raised his hand. Maybor went cold. His son was looking straight at him. The gesture was for him alone. They stood perhaps a third of a league apart--the only two men on the battlefield wearing red and silver-and stared at each other. Maybor felt his heart would break. His son wasn't wearing the family colors out of pride, but rather as a slap in the face. A cruel taunt to a father he considered a traitor.

Maybor turned away. He didn't need to look at Kedrac to know what his next order would be.

The final retreat was underway. b.l.o.o.d.y, mud-smeared chaos reigned. The Highwall cavalry were pulling back fast, but Bren's mercenaries and the Royal Guard were coming after them. Hundreds of men were going down, arrows and blades in their backs. The air was filled with their screams. Maybor shook his head. The retreat losses were going to be heavy. They'd lose hundreds more lives than they saved.

The entire battlefield was moving to the south. All of Bren's forces were charging after the Wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Maybor spotted a company of heavily armed knights swiftly descending down Kedrar's command slope. He watched them for a moment, his face grim. Then, spinning around, he waited until the first line of Highwall cavalry drew abreast of him and kicked his horse into a gallop.

"To the mountains!" he cried, filled with a mad rush of exhilaration. So his son wanted him dead, eh? Well, he'd just have to see about that.

Twenty-three.

The journey back to Rom took six days. The mainmast of the ship was too weak to bear a topsail, so they had to rely on the mainsail to bring them home.

It had been a calm voyage. A time of rest. The winds were gentle upon the ship, the sea itself almost conciliatory. The days were short, but the sunsets were long, and the nights were spanned by stars. The Fishy Few creaked and listed from wave to wave, and the crew cosseted her all the way.

During five of the six days, Jack was abed with fever. Fyler and, surprisingly, Captain Quain looked after him day and night. Tawl himself was out of the reckoning for the fast two days, whilst his various cuts, bruises, gouges, and swellings were seen to by the crew. Fyler was the ship's unofficial surgeon, and never had Tawl come across a more enthusiastic-and thereby dangerous-amateur. Sometimes Tawl got the feeling he was being st.i.tched just for the sake of it. The st.i.tching wasn't as bad as the raw fish poultices, though, and not nearly as painful as the cauterizing. In fact, Fyler's only saving grace as a surgeon was his heavy reliance on hot rum toddies as painkillers.

Indeed, Tawl had spent much of the past six days in a toddy-induced stupor. It was, he found, the perfect antidote to Larn.

The island was having a more lasting effect upon Jack. It had done something to him: in the hours between destroying the seers' cavern and waking up the following morning, Jack had aged five years. His hair had lost its brightness and there were strands of gray around his temples. But that wasn't the worst. Deep lines now cut into his face, across his brow, along his cheeks, and down to his mouth.

Tawl hadn't said anything to him. There were no mirrors on the ship, but they'd be docking in Rorn within an hour, and so he'd find out soon enough. Tawl smiled, bringing his hand up to feel his own face. It was a ma.s.s of st.i.tches and swellings. Neither of them was a pretty sight now. Still, they'd gotten off lightly. They were lucky to be alive. Tawl had no idea what happened at the cavern, what Jack had gone through, but he'd sensed the power of the place, felt it throbbing through his bones. Whatever sorcery had been there was mighty beyond telling, and it was hardly surprising it had taken a toll.

Tawl had expected to feel relief, even perhaps satisfaction, at its fall. In reality it just left him feeling empty. The seers were dead, the cavern had been destroyed, yet many of the priests had survived-they were the real evil on Lam. Ancient magic had never tied anyone to a stone.

"Rorn looks good from here."

Tawl turned around to see Jack coming to join him on the foredeck. Once again, Tawl had to hide his surprise over the change in Jack's appearance. He still hadn't got used to it. "How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, really. I think I'm becoming immune to rum."

"You're a stronger man than me, then. Four of Fyler's toddies and I'm away licking the deck."

Jack smiled. His face was pale and drawn. The fever had left him two days ago, and Fyler had only allowed him up yesterday. "We've a long way to go yet, haven't we?" Tawl watched the white spires of Rorn grow larger on the horizon. "We'll be in Bren before you know."

The Fishy Few glided into the dock, pulled by two heavy rowing craft. Jack and Tawl were joined by Carver and Captain Quain. All four men stood on the foredeck and watched as the ship was drawn past lines of fishing boats and caravels to its berth along the wharf. Seagulls dipped and looped in the blue sky, and the breeze carried messages from Rorn.

As they drew nearer, Tawl raised a hand to shade his eyes and looked out at the quayside. Two figures waited on the dock. Tawl recognized Nabber straightaway-the bulging tunic, the pack slung over the shoulder, the impossibly skinny legs--but the second one he couldn't make out. Carver had a spygla.s.s to his eye. "We've got one waiting for us, Captain. A bit raggedy, she is, but a live one just the same."

Quain glanced at Tawl, noted where he was looking, and said, "I don't think she's waiting for us, Carver. Why don't you give the gla.s.s to Tawl?"

"Here you go, mate," said Carver, handing over the spygla.s.s. "She's standing next to that young lad on the quay. Pimps get younger by the day."

Tawl looked through the gla.s.s. He couldn't help but smile as he spied Nabber. The young pocket did not look happy. The girl who stood beside him was cleaning his face and neck with a rag. The girl herself was pitifully thin. Her hair was shorn short, and if it wasn't for the fact that she was wearing a dress, she could have been mistaken for a boy. As Tawl watched, she turned to face the ship. Tawl caught his breath. It was Megan. His Megan.

He brought down the gla.s.s. What had happened to her? Where were her bonny curls and rosy cheeks? Her plump lips, her curves, her sparkling eyes? Tawl felt a cold dread steal over him. He remembered the last time he'd disembarked The Fishy Few, running down the gangplank and heading straight for the whoring quarter, hoping to spend the night with Megan. Only she hadn't been there. Her room was empty, her possessions in disarray. He'd just accepted that she'd gone. What if he'd been wrong? What if she'd been in danger, and he'd just carried on?

Gradually the ship drew level with the wharf. The two figures on the quay began to move down the wooden walkway. Tawl could see them clearly now. Megan was dressed very prettily in a pink skirt and bodice that, judging from the way it gleamed in the sunlight, could only be silk. A woolen shawl lay across her shoulders, and every so often Nabber would reach up and pull it close against her arms. The two walked hand in hand.

"Whoa! Tawl!" shouted Nabber, approaching the docking ship. "I've brought a friend to see you."

Tawl looked down at Megan. Even from this distance, he could see he had been wrong: her eyes still sparkled. She didn't say anything, but she smiled. It was a smile of welcome and warmth and friendship, and it filled Tawl's heart with a sharp, aching joy.

He was down the gangplank before the mooring ropes had been secured. He raced along the walkway and into Megan's arms. She was so thin, so frail, he was frightened he might crush her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she shook like a newborn colt. "Tawl, I'm so glad," she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here."

The crew cheered. Tawl looked up to see all twelve of them lined up along the ship's railings, grinning. He couldn't help but laugh at the sight of them. They were good men. He raised his arm and waved. After a second, Megan waved, too, and the crew went wild: yelling, throwing kisses, and asking her if she had any friends.

Shaking his head, unable to stop smiling, Tawl put his arm out for Nabber The pocket slid under his arm and against his chest.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Tawl, you look a bit rough."

Tawl burst out laughing again. He squeezed the boy hard. "If you don't mind me saying, Nabber. I think you could do with a little tact."

Jack was saying his farewells to the crew. Tawl watched as he exchanged a few words with the captain and then made his way down the gangplank. He had a strange look on his face.

"Hey! Jack!" cried Nabber, disengaging himself from Tawl and running up to meet him. Jack hugged the boy. Tawl was standing with his arm around Megan, waiting for Nabber to put his foot in it. He didn't have to wait long. "Borc's kneecaps, Jack! What happened to you? Tawl looks bad, but you look awful. Is that gray in your hair, or wet paint?"

Jack raised a hand to his hair. "Gray?"

"Just around the edges, mind."

Jack looked at Nabber a moment and then laughed. "Well, if a few gray hairs are all I've got to show for Larn, then I didn't come off too badly."

Tawl breathed a sigh of relief. He beckoned Jack over to meet Megan. As he introduced her to Jack, he couldn't help wondering what she had gone through. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her cheeks were empty hollows.

"Pleased to meet you, Jack," she said. Her voice was thinner than he remembered.

Jack bowed and took her hand. Tawl smiled at him, pleased that he greeted her as if she were a highborn lady. After a moment, Nabber padded up from behind to join them. "I've just had a quick word with the good captain. Told him we'd be back later with the payment."

"You've managed to raise it?" said Jack.

"Of course I have," said Nabber instantly indignant. "What d'you think I am, a bungling amateur? You two aren't the only ones who have been up to stuff, you know. I've been busy, too. Having meetings, rescuing damsels, acquiring the loot. Right put upon, I've been. Right put upon."

Tawl, guessing Nabber's feelings had been hurt by being left in Rorn, said, "That's why we left you here, Nabber. Because we knew we could rely on you to take care of business."

"Take care of business, my earlobes! Stranded, I was. Left to fend for myself without so much as a word of warning or thanks. You two should count yourselves lucky that I'm here today. Mortally insulted me and I'm still paying the bills!"

Tawl grabbed hold of Nabber's arm. He began steering him along toward the quay. "Why don't we go to the Rose and Crown, have a hot meal, and you can tell us all you've gone through?"

Nabber snorted. "I suppose I'll be paying for that, too."

"Your Eminence, word has just come in from the north. Highwall's armies were defeated six days ago on the southern plains of Bren."

Tavalisk put down the asparagus that had just been aimed at his throat. "How did this happen? Bren's armies alone couldn't possibly have been enough to rout the Wall."

"The kingdoms' forces moved across the mountains last week, Your Eminence. They arrived in Bren just ahead of the winter storms."

"So that was what Kylock was waiting for all this time. The winter storms." Tavalisk licked the asparagus b.u.t.ter from his fingers. This was the worst news that Gamil had ever brought him. The northern empire was no longer a threat. It was a reality. Baralis and Kylock had effectively conquered the north. "Tell me, was it a ma.s.sacre?"

"Yes, Your Eminence. Apparently the Wall was surrounded on three sides. They tried to withdraw to the east, but they didn't make it. Bren's blackhelms slaughtered them. By all accounts it was a bloodbath. No prisoners were taken."

"Maybor and Besik?"

"Lord Besik went down with his men. There's no word on Lord Maybor. There's a rumor that he led a third of the Highwall army into the mountains, but from what I can ascertain, most of their number died. They were the last to withdraw from the field."

"Yes. That would do it." Tavalisk was distressed, but not about to betray that fact to Gamil. Ever since that unfortunate incident last week with the young pickpocket, the archbishop found himself trusting Gamil less and less. His aide was obviously up to something of a dubious nature, or he wouldn't have been successfully blackmailed by a street urchin. And, more importantly, there was now a remote possibility that the man knew about his treasure trove.

Tavalisk picked an asparagus spear from the tray. He bent it until it snapped. As soon as that pesky little pocket left Rorn, he'd arrange to have his savings moved. Might even split it-half in the city, half outside. The way things were looking in the north at the moment, a man couldn't be too careful where his a.s.sets were concerned. Especially when those a.s.sets were hard gold.