——— 2 ———

⁠—⁠—⁠— II ⁠—⁠—⁠—

The Mongauli knights were ready to march back towards the River Kes and Alvon Keep.

The children and the leopard-man were tied with leather straps tightly bound about their wrists and around their waists; the straps were fastened to the saddles of mounted knights. The captives walked between the two squads of white knights, who were in turn surrounded by rows of knights in red.

“Rinda… my wrists hurt,” whimpered Remus, looking as though he might burst into tears at any moment.

His sister had not resisted when their captors tied on the leather straps. She had thrust her exquisitely slender arms out before her, as if to command that they be bound.

Now her face was stern. “Remus, your lord father died at the hands of these white knights. Always remember that! And you must remember how the Lady Amnelis preened in her arrogance, flushed with her wretched victory, and how she treated us, the prince and princess of Parros, like dogs! Should we be so lucky as to live, and should the day come that our father’s kingdom rises once more, the first thing you must do as king is to wipe vile Mongaul⁠—no, all of Gohra⁠—off the face of the earth.”

Remus looked at his sister, his eyes full of fear. “Is she going to kill us?”

“I would surely do so, were I the Lady of Mongauli” Rinda declared, beyond trying to comfort her brother. “Remus, if we must die, we must die together. Please don’t forget you’re the heir of Parros! Be proud until the killing blade falls, and die with your head held high. Do you understand?”

Remus shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. Rinda’s admonition stung him as badly as the pain from his tightly bound wrists.

“I don’t want to die,” Remus moaned, knowing full well how the admission of fear would anger his sister.

“Remus⁠—” she began, when a rough grumble from Guin, bound with far sturdier cords than the twins, cut her off.

“Little princess, not everyone is born as straight and true as you, or with as noble a heart,” the leopard-headed warrior spoke solemnly. “You must not censure a soul different than your own, even should that soul wear a face like yours, for it was through no effort of your own that you were born as you are.

“And, Prince Remus, you must not be ashamed of who you are. There are not many heirs of kings who can so readily and honestly admit that they are afraid to die. You are no common boy.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

Guin shook his head. “I’m saying you should be proud of who you are, little one.”

“March!”

The order was passed from man to man down the long lines in front of them. Slowly the five hundred knights began to move. The three captives suddenly found themselves yanked forwards by the taut straps around their wrists, and they had to step forward quickly to keep up.

The sun had risen high into the vast sky. From its heavenly vantage point it sent its rays to scorch all earthly things as it slowly slid westward.

“Guin,” Rinda panted.

“Do not talk. You’ll only tire more quickly.”

“Guin, where could he have gone to, that⁠—”

“Quiet!” hissed Guin.

The sound caught the attention of one of the knights riding in front of them, who turned to shout at them. “Talk while you can, leopard-freak. It’ll only be a half-twist before those orphans of yours get so tired they’ll fall down to be dragged along the ground by their pathetic wrists.”

“Mongauli demon!” Rinda cursed in a hoarse voice, tears welling in her eyes. Guin waited, head down, until the knight lost interest and faced back forward.

When he was sure that he would not be heard over the plodding sound of their advance, nor, amidst the dust rising from five hundred horses’ hooves, be seen talking, Guin spoke again in a low voice. “Do not say his name. He may be our only life-line now.”

“What? That scoundrel’s probably so happy with his little bit of treachery he’s off sleeping peacefully under some rock.”

“We do not know that. And even if he were, we have no grounds to accuse him. He’s a mercenary, and we certainly never paid him. All that’s left for us to do is to trust Jarn and his crippled son, Hope.”

Istavan had not been sleeping; nor indeed had he abandoned his chance companions as Rinda suspected, though it was true that he felt no particular loyalty to them, nor any responsibility to alter their predicament. No, the veils of emotion and honor could do little to cloud the eyes of the Crimson Mercenary, as keen as they were for the gleam of profit.

Yet, circumstances prevented him from enjoying his perfect evasion of the Mongauli forces as much as he would have liked. He was, after all, stuck in the no-man’s land of Nospherus, a place filled with Doal-knows-what dangers, and no matter how skilled he was with the sword, one man on foot didn’t have much of a chance of surviving more than a day or two out here alone. Now, if he were a superhuman warrior like Guin, maybe… but that was not the case.

Nor had he any special knowledge of Nospherus or its denizens. Few folk did who had been raised in the Middle Country. Just thinking about the yidoh that had engulfed his leg or the bigmouths that roamed both water and land set the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. It was scant consolation that he was unlikely to be threatened by water creatures any time soon, since he didn’t even have a raft with which to make the crossing back to Gohran lands.

This is not good, not good. Not good at all. By the hundred drooping ears of Jarn up in heaven, I must admit I’m in a bit of a fix.

Things had gone quite well that morning, considering. He had seen the dust from the approaching riders, abandoned his look-out duties, and made a clean escape, except for his having to drag off the protesting Sem girl to keep her from giving him away. Istavan Spellsword had a special talent for saving his own skin. The mercenary could be faulted for failings of many kinds, but this gift of his was certainly as exceptional as Guin’s superhuman strength and willpower. Istavan knew when a situation was turning sour; often he could read the signs of trouble hours before it came. His hunches were pure gold.

This morning, for example. He thought back on the events that had begun the day…

Crouching behind an outcrop, Istavan had watched the knights sweep over his companions’ camp. He was quite sure that, while the capture of Guin and the twins would satisfy the Mongauli band to some extent, they would undertake at least a cursory search for him and Suni. So he had dragged off the Sem, who shrieked in her incomprehensible monkey language, and had hidden in the broken land. Then, instead of doing the obvious and heading east to put distance between them and the search parties, he had gone around behind the advancing knights.

Now, safely ensconced atop a rugged cliff, he lazily watched the searchers when, as expected, they headed off to the east. A temporary encampment had been set up beneath the cliff, with a large military pavilion and horses and knights resting in the shade. Istavan surveyed the scene and chuckled deep in his throat.

“Hey, you, monkey-girl! I know you don’t understand me, but I’ll tell you something good anyway. The finest ditch-wisdom. Want to know the best way to hide? Get as close as you can to whoever’s looking for you, and wherever they go, you follow them! Follow the followers, get it? No, I see you don’t. What it means is that we can sit up here and enjoy the sun in relative safety, that’s what it means.”

Istavan looked up at the sky and swore lightly.

“But maybe that isn’t such a good idea after all, eh? Ach, it’s like we’re in that tale where the frost spirit Laala wanders onto Ruah Sungod’s bronze disk and melts in half a twist⁠— though I doubt it’ll take us that long! And to top it off I’m bloody hungry. Huh? What’s that? Got something to say?”

Istavan twisted his handsome features into a scowl and roused himself from his comfortable perch to glare at the ape-girl, who had suddenly started up a ferocious twittering. She pulled on the mercenary’s hand, showing every sign of over-whelming anxiety.

Lacking anything better to do, Istavan let the girl’s animated gestures lead his gaze down to the bottom of the cliff. There was something going on down there. He frowned. From this distance, the figures looked no bigger than beans in the sand, but Istavan could clearly make out the shapes of Guin and the twins of Parros in front of the great pavilion that clearly belonged to whomever was commanding the force of knights.

The mercenary of Valachia couldn’t understand a word that Suni said, but her intent was clear from her tone and gestures. She grew increasingly agitated, pounding her furry feet on the rock, pointing down towards the pavilion, making pleading gestures to Istavan and tugging on the sword in the sheath at his waist. Her chestnut eyes flared with a fierce, determined light as she clung to him, begging him to save Rinda.

“Aluura, iminitto, grah!”

Istavan scowled. The girl’s words were gibberish but she was certainly saying something like “cowardly cretin,” or he was no a mercenary.

“Fool monkey! Keep squawking like that and I’ll stick a spit through you and cook you for dinner,” he threatened, and put up a finger over his lips in a universal gesture. But Suni seemed so intent on her mission that, if she understood him, she did not show it. Instead she tugged even harder on his scabbard, her round eyes accusing the runaway mercenary.

“Get your stinking monkey hands off me!” Istavan hissed, tired of her insistent whines. “What’s your problem, anyway? Them? Leave those fools be. Look, that Guin can handle anything Jarn Fateweaver throws at him. If he can handle slime-creatures, he can handle a few knights, okay? Let them deal with their own problems. You should be more worried about saving yourself. Isn’t that the way of your land? Aaaah, shut up!”

Istavan’s obsidian eyes, flashing with exasperation, narrowed. His hand flew to his side, as if he were about to draw the sword at his waist and cut the girl in two. Suni’s high-pitched chattering stopped abruptly and she hopped back with a shriek.

Quickly the little Sem scampered out of the range of Istavan’s blade, warily watching his every move. Seeing her eyes round with fear, the ill-mannered mercenary was unable to contain his laughter.

“I see you’ve finally got it through your monkey head that I mean business. Be very afraid, monkey-girl!” Istavan growled in mock ferocity, clutching his sides to stifle his laughter. Seeing that his merriment angered Suni made him laugh harder. The young mercenary still had moments when he behaved more like a willful, mischievous boy than a man nearing the age of twenty, a trait that had angered a good share of people in recent years, though Istavan himself would have been the last to care.

But Suni’s desperate determination was unabated, for Rinda had saved her life, and in return, Suni had given Rinda her heart. She cared more for the girl with platinum blond hair than perhaps Rinda cared for herself. Now the princess was in danger, and Suni could think of nothing else.

The mercenary chuckled as Suni glared at him with untrusting eyes. He was pleased to see that she had abandoned any hope of getting him to help; at least, she was not accosting him and tugging on his sword anymore. Instead she fell deep in thought, until suddenly, she sprang to her feet with the speed of a wild animal.

In a flash the girl was scampering down the rocky slope with the nimble expertise of a true child of the wasteland.

“Whoa, hey! Monkey!” By the time the startled Istavan was able to jump forth, she was already sliding off the edge. “Hey, stop! Where do you think you’re going, monkey! Hey!” Istavan reached for her pointlessly; Suni was already far beyond his grasp. The little Sem girl flashed one glance back at him with her chestnut-brown eyes, then scampered off on her tiny feet, never looking back again.

“Aah…” Istavan’s cursing died into a sigh as he watched her go. The little hairy shape leapt in rapid zigzags down the opposite side of the cliff whereon Istavan had made his temporary hideout.

The Crimson Mercenary sat for a while, watching her go. Finally he spat. “What was that all about? Damn monkey…” A sudden rush of anger overtook him and he leapt to his feet. He yelled at the spot where Suni had been hiding, “What’s the big idea, glaring at me like that! By the three-and-a-half curls of Jarn’s tail, I haven’t done anything wrong!”

His youthful face twisted in a dramatic scowl. He stared towards the cliff base. After a moment’s hesitation, during which he repeated to himself that it was not his problem, he lay down on the hard ground again, with exaggerated indifference⁠—then just as soon leapt up to his feet.

“They got themselves into it!” Istavan grumbled to no one in particular. “That leopard-head is master of his own fate, anyway. I’m not doing so well, am I, running fugitive like this. Maybe I should have sold the twins to the Gohrans early on⁠—worked out a deal. Might’ve even scored rank among the knights. Come to think of it, I was sort of curious how the arch-dukes’ power struggle would play out after the Mongauli conquest of Parros…”

The mercenary thoughtfully scratched at the bristle on his chin. He knew he needed a plan, but what? Spellsword or no, he couldn’t imagine making it across the badlands all by himself. Yet the prospect of taking on five hundred elite troops wasn’t too tempting either. And he certainly didn’t owe those fugitives enough to risk his own skin. They hadn’t even hired him, so he could hardly feel obligated…

“Huh?” Istavan suddenly broke out of his reverie and squinted down through the blazing sunlight.

There was a commotion below among the knights. Apparently orders to march had been given. In unison, the knights rose up from their rest, stowing canteens and rations in their packs, strapping on chaps and gloves, and bringing their horses into formation. Quickly they closed ranks, the captains riding back and forth among them.

The mercenary cautiously slipped along the rocks until he found a vantage point where he would not easily be seen, and he flattened himself on the ground at the cliffs edge.

A small cloud of dust approached from the east and turned into the search party that had been sent out to look for Istavan and Suni. The searchers joined the other knights to complete the formation, which from above looked like a white stamen surrounded by red petals. At the head of each rank, drummers rapped a quick beat on their drumskins, and the barren rocks of Nospherus echoed back. It was the signal to depart.

At last, a small group emerged from the pavilion. From atop the cliff, Guin’s tall, heroic form and tawny leopard head were the easiest to pick out, though Istavan’s sharp eyes could easily see the platinum blond twins as well, one to either side of the warrior. In the rising dust, they were like exotic flowers that had sprung inexplicably from the dry desert rock.

The knights pushed them out and made them kneel, then with leather straps bound their waists and outstretched hands. Istavan watched unblinking as the captives were led to the middle of the formation and tied to horses.

Then, something else near the pavilion, which was being dismantled, caught his eye: a figure proudly mounting a white horse that stood ready.

Istavan swallowed.

He could not see the commander clearly at such a distance, but he felt something when he looked upon the form. He scowled, and closed his eyes, deep in furious thought. Then he sprang to his feet and nodded to himself, with the air of someone who has made an important decision.

Istavan was ready for action.