“Nor am I. But it is enough, I think, to continue the chase.” Theido cast his eyes to the sky, now radiant with the gold of the lowering sun. “We still have a few hours of daylight; we can go far.”
“And we will ride tonight. We should catch them before morning.”
Without another word they walked back to where the others were now waiting, Esme and Tarkio having been joined by the two remaining knights. “Be assured, my Lady. Yonder wretch was never friend to us. One of their own, most likely.” Ronsard shot a questioning glance at the two who had, like Tarkio, been scouring the area for any signs as to the fate of the captives. Both knights merely shook their heads from side to side; they had seen nothing.
“Then we ride on. The trail is an easy one to follow. We shall stop at next water to rest the horses. Nobren and Kenby, go ahead, and then Tarkio and Esme. Theido and I will follow.” As the others took their mounts he said to Theido, “We must have a plan before we reach the camp.”
Theido offered a nod. “We will pray that something presents itself along the way. I know not what we shall do else.”
Two human skulls stared vacantly back at Quentin from where they stood affixed to long poles on either side of Gurd’s low dais. The warlord himself seemed only a slightly more animated skull. He sat unmoving, the soft lamplight filling the hollows of his lean face with shadow. That he was aware at all of their presence was shown by the two glinting orbs of his black eyes.
The warlord was seated, as were his reluctant guests, upon a cushion. His chest was bare, for he wore a short jacket open to the waist. It was of a very ornate pattern, brocaded in delicate figures foreign to Quentin’s eye. But it was the man’s chest which caught and held Quentin’s attention. For even in the glimmering light of the oil lamps he could see that it was a mass of scars-long, jagged, nasty-looking scars. No accident or wound of battle could have produced them in such profusion; some were obviously more recent, for they overlaid others, and some were only freshly healed. Quentin realized with a start that the wounds, these horrible mutilations, were self-inflicted.
The seneschal, now seated at the warlord’s right hand between the prisoners and his master, clapped his hands, and slaves bearing large bowls of food came hurrying in. Another slave set down smaller bowls which the food-bearers proceeded to fill from the larger bowl. When this was completed the bowls were left before the diners, and the slaves withdrew hastily.
The warlord picked up his bowl and fell to eating at once, without another glance at his guests.
The food, an unfamiliar kind of boiled grain heavily spiced with chunks of meat in a thick sauce, was steaming hot. It tasted exotic and otherworldly to Quentin’s uninitiated palate, and once swallowed it left a lingering warmth on the tongue. They ate with fingers, bowls held to their lips. Quentin contrived to balance his bowl on the inner part of his knee, dipping with his left hand, his useless right arm cradled in his lap.
Midway through the meal a slave appeared with a jar and began to pour out an amber liquid into golden pannikans. These, too, were placed before each one and the slave departed. The beverage was a wine of some kind. Quentin savored the slight metallic tang, but it was of a kind he had never encountered: smooth, almost thick, and wonderfully sweet. He found that a sip banished the warm tingle on his tongue produced by the spice of the food.
The warlord ate two bowls greedily without looking up. When he had finished, he lay down his bowl and placed his hands upon his knees. He belched once and then said something very quickly. “The meal is over,” the seneschal informed the prisoners. And though Quentin’s bowl was still half full, he put it down and rested his hand upon his knee in imitation of his host.
“Lord Gurd wishes you to know that he only eats in the presence of those he respects, and that he will only share food with those he admires.” The emissary nodded to them, indicating that some response of like nature was intended.
“Who are we that he should respect or admire us, his enemies?”
The emissary translated Quentin’s question, and the warlord chuckled deeply and made a short reply.
“Lord Gurd says that your spirit has ennobled you. You, fair-skinned one, have survived the ordeal of the wheel. Had you been a coward, you would have died. You,” he addressed Toli, “risked death to rescue your friend. This deed has value, even though it is the act of a fool. The Lord Gurd admires such courage. He will be sorry to kill you when the time comes, but your blood will flow for him-as a most satisfying oblation for his immortality. This pleases him.”
This answer mystified and angered Quentin; he started to make a reply, but felt Toli’s light touch on his arm. Instead he said, “Why do you invade our land? Who are you?”
The seneschal spoke to the warlord who smiled thinly, like a serpent. “I informed Lord Gurd that you were honored that he should deem you worthy for such service.” To Quentin’s sharply angry look he added, “It would not serve to anger him just now. He would have you disemboweled to return the food you have eaten with him.”
“What does he want with us?” asked Toli.
“He alone knows.”
Gurd picked up his goblet and drank deeply of the sweet liquor. When he had done, he rumbled a long discourse to his emissary, who interpreted. “Lord Gurd wishes to know how far is the great city-this Askelon-and how is it fortified and by how many soldiers it is guarded.”
“How is it that he believes I know the answers to such questions?” Quentin replied.
After a brief consultation with his lord, the man replied, “Lord Gurd knows that you have horses and therefore are not unsubstantial men. He has seen your weapons and clothing and believes that you are of favored rank. The fact that you attacked his soldiers, the two of you alone, tells him you are not unfamiliar with military matters and are in fact well-trained for such purposes.”
Quentin hesitated. Toli’s thoughts could not be discerned.
“If you are pondering whether to answer or not, please allow me to remind you that Lord Gurd perceives any answers following such reluctance to be a lie, as I have already told you. Give me your answer at once, and he will be appeased.”
“Askelon is a far distance from here, many leagues. And he is right to call it a great city, for so it is. There is none like it. No host has ever conquered Castle Askelon, and none ever will.”
“And how many soldiers defend this place?”
“Tell your lord Curd that the Dragon King’s army is sufficient to any need.”
The warlord watched this exchange closely, not entirely pleased with Quentin’s response. But he nodded with satisfaction when his interpreter had finished his reply. Gurd beamed at Quentin and Toli and in his thick, incomprehensible speech addressed them both.
“The Lord Gurd is pleased with your answers. He has decided to allow you to live until we reach Askelon, where you will be sacrificed in order that he might win the city more quickly. He wishes to assure you that your blood will flow for him alone. This is a very high honor.”
“It is an honor we would rather forgo,” Quentin said in a voice edged with subtle sarcasm, “but perhaps we may reciprocate the distinction at some future time.”
The emissary smiled slyly and began to offer Quentin’s remarks to his master, who bowed faintly and then yawned. He waved his hand toward his servant who stood, saying, “The audience is now at an end. Bow to him and retreat; do not show your back to him.”
They all backed away from the warlord’s presence, through the curtain. They crossed the tent and stepped once more outside. The evening was deepening, and Quentin felt the atmosphere in the camp pulsing with a barely contained excitement. The soldiers clustered together in knots, and coarse laughter could be heard on every side. The sun was well down, and the sky blushed crimson in the west. When the light finally disappears, thought Quentin, these barbarians will deliver themselves to frenzy.