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‘If Zalasta’s the best this century can manage, colleague, I think we’re in deep trouble. But we digress. The crisis which Contemporary History chooses to call “The Cyrga Affair” has been brewing for several years.’
‘Yes,’ someone shouted with heavy sarcasm, ‘we noticed that!’
‘I’m so happy for you,’ Itagne murmured, drawing another loud laugh from the audience. To whom did our idiot Prime Minister turn for aid? To Zalasta, of course. And what was Zalasta’s answer to the crisis? He urged us to send for the Pandion Knight, Prince Sparhawk of Elenia. Why would the name of an Elene nobleman leap to Zalasta’s lips in answer to the question – almost before it was asked – particularly in view of the sorry record of the Elenes in their relations with the Styrics? To be sure, Prince Sparhawk’s exploits are legendary, but what was it about the man that made Zalasta pine so for his company? And why was it that Zalasta neglected to tell us that Sparhawk is Anakha, the instrument of the Bhelliom? Did the fact somehow slip his mind? Did he think that the spirit which creates whole universes was somehow irrelevant? I find no mention at all about Bhelliom in this recently published heap of bird-droppings. Did you omit the most momentous event of the past eon deliberately? Were you so caught up in trying to give your adored Pondia Subat credit for policy decisions he had no part in that you decided not to mention Bhelliom at all?’
‘Balderdash!’ a deep voice roared.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Professor Balderdash. My name’s Itagne. It was good of you to introduce yourself. Thanks awfully, old boy.’
The laughter was tumultuous this time.
‘Fast on his feet, isn’t he?’ Itagne heard Ulath murmur to Bevier.
Itagne looked up. ‘Colleagues,’ he said, ‘I submit that it was not Prince Sparhawk that Zalasta so yearned for, but the Bhelliom. Bhelliom is the source of ultimate power, and Zalasta has been trying to get his hands on it for three centuries – for reasons too disgusting to mention. He has been willing to go to any lengths. He has betrayed his faith, his people, and his personal integrity – such as it was – to gain what the Trolls call “The Flower-Gem”.’
That tears it!’ the corpulent Quinsal declared, rising to his feet. ‘This man is mad! Now he’s talking about Trolls! This is an academic affair, Itagne, not the children’s hour. You’ve picked the wrong forum for fairytales and ghost stories.’
‘Why don’t you let me do this, Itagne?’ Ulath said, rising to his feet and coming to the podium. I can settle this question in just a moment or two.’
‘Feel free,’ Itagne said gratefully.
Ulath set one huge hand on each side of the lectern. ‘Professor Itagne has requested me to brief you gentlemen on a few matters,’ he said. I take it that you’re having some difficulties with the notion of Trolls.’
‘None at all, Sir Knight,’ Quinsal retorted. ‘Trolls are an Elene myth and nothing else. There’s no difficulty in that at all.’
‘What an amazing thing. I spent five years compiling a Trollish grammar. Are you saying that I was wasting my time?’
‘I think you’re as mad as Itagne is.’
‘Then you probably shouldn’t irritate me, should you? Particularly in view of the fact that I’m so much bigger than you are.’ Ulath squinted at the ceiling. ‘Logic tells us that no one can prove a negative. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to amend your statement?’
‘No, Sir Ulath. I’ll stand by what I just said. There’s no such thing as a Troll.’
‘Did you hear that, Bhlokw?’ Ulath raised his voice slightly. This fellow says that you don’t exist.’
There was a hideous roar in the corridor outside the auditorium, and the double doors at the rear splintered and crashed inward.
‘Stay calm!’ Bevier hissed as Itagne jumped. ‘It’s an illusion. Ulath’s amusing himself.’
‘Would you like to turn around and tell me what you see at the back of the hall, Quinsal?’ Ulath asked. ‘Exactly what would you call my friend Bhlokw there?’
The creature hulking in the doorway was huge, and its bestial face was contorted with rage. It stretched its paws forth hungrily. ‘Who has said this, U-Lat?’ it demanded in a hideous voice. I will cause hurt to it! I will rip it to pieces and eat it!’
‘Can that Troll actually speak Tamul?’ Itagne whispered.
‘Of course not,’ Bevier smiled. ‘Ulath’s getting carried away.’
The hideous apparition in the doorway continued to bellow horribly graphic descriptions of its plans for the faculty of the Contemporary History Department.
‘Were there any other questions about Trolls?’ Ulath asked mildly, but none of the assembled academics heard him over all the shouts, screams and the tipping over of chairs.
It took the better part of a quarter of an hour to restore order once Ulath had dismissed his illusion, and when Itagne reapproached the lectern, the entire audience was huddled closely together near the front of the auditorium. ‘I’m touched by your eagerness to hear my every word, gentlemen,’ Itagne smiled, ‘but I can speak loudly enough to be heard at the back of the hall, so you needn’t draw so close. I trust that the visit of Sir Ulath’s friend has cleared up the little misunderstanding about Trolls?’ He looked at Quinsal, who was still cowering on the floor, gibbering in terror. ‘Splendid,’ Itagne said. ‘Briefly then, Prince Sparhawk came to Tamuli. Elenes are sometimes a devious people, so Sparhawk’s wife, Queen Ehlana, proposed a state visit to Matherion and concealed her husband and his friends in her entourage. Upon their arrival, they almost immediately uncovered some facts which we had somehow overlooked. First, Emperor Sarabian actually has a mind; and second, the government led by Pondia Subat was in league with our enemies.’
‘Treason!’ a thin, balding professor shrieked, leaping to his feet.
‘Really, Dalash?’ Itagne asked. ‘Against whom?’
‘Why – uh -’ Dalash floundered.
‘You still don’t understand, do you gentlemen?’ Itagne asked the faculty of Contemporary History. ‘The previous government has been overthrown – by Emperor Sarabian himself. Tamuli is now an Elene-style monarchy, and Emperor Sarabian rules by decree. The previous government – and its Prime Minister – are no longer relevant.’
‘The Prime Minister cannot be removed from office!’ Dalash screamed. ‘He holds his position for life!’
‘Even if that were true, it suggests a rather simple solution to the problem, doesn’t it?’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Not me, old boy. That’s the Emperor’s decision. Don’t cross him, gentlemen. If you do, he’ll decorate the city gates with your heads. Let’s press on here. I’d like to cover a bit more ground before our customary recess. It was the aborted coup-attempt that finally brought things to a head. Pondia Subat was a party to the entire conspiracy and he fully intended to stand around wringing his hands while the drunken mob murdered all of his political enemies, evidently including the Emperor himself. If Professor Dalash wants to scream “treason” he might take a look at that. We discovered much in the aftermath of that failed coup, not only concerning the treason of the Prime Minister, but of the Minister of the Interior as well. Most important, however, was the discovery that it had been Zalasta who had engineered the entire plot, and that he was secretly allied with Ekatas, High Priest of Cyrgon, the God of the supposedly extinct Cyrgai.
‘At this point Prince Sparhawk had no choice but to retrieve Bhelliom from its hiding place and to send to Chyrellos for reinforcements. He enlisted other allies as well, not the least of which were the Delphae – who do in fact exist in all their glowing horror.’
‘This is absurd!’ Contemporary History’s reigning bully-boy, the crude and muscular Professor Pessalt sneered. ‘Are we supposed to believe this nonsense?’
‘You’ve already seen a Troll this evening, Pessalt,’ Itagne reminded him. ‘Would you like a personal visitation by a Shining One as well? I can arrange it, if you’d like – but outside, please. We’d never get rid of the stink if you were dissolved into a puddle of slime right here in front of the platform.’
Dean Altus cleared his throat meaningfully.
‘Yes sir,’ Itagne assured him. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes.’ He turned back to the audience. ‘Now then,’ he continued quickly, ‘since the subject of the Trolls has come up again, we might as well go into that and clear it away once and for all. As you’ve noticed, the Trolls are real. They were lured to Tamuli from their home range in northern Thalesia by Cyrgon, who posed as one of their Gods. The real Troll-Gods have been imprisoned for eons, and Prince Sparhawk offered them an exchange – their freedom in return for their aid. He then led a sizeable force to northern Atan, where the misguided Trolls had been stirring up turmoil in hopes of forcing the Atans to return to defend their homeland – which would have left us effectively defenseless, since the Atans comprise the bulk of our army. Sparhawk’s move seemed to play right into the hands of our enemies, but when Cyrgon and Zalasta unleashed the Trolls, Sparhawk called forth their Gods to reclaim them. In desperation, Cyrgon reached back in time and produced a huge army of his Cyrgai. Then the Trolls, true to their nature, ate them.’
‘You don’t really expect us to swallow this, do you, Itagne?’ Professor Sarafawn, Chairman of the Department of Contemporary History and brother-in-law of the Prime Minister, demanded scornfully.
‘You might as well, Sarafawn,’ Itagne told him. ‘Your wife’s brother isn’t dictating official history any more. From now on, the Emperor wants us to give our students the plain, unvarnished truth. I’ll be publishing a factual account in the next month or so. You’d better reserve a copy, Sarafawn, because you’re going to be required to teach it to all your students in the future – assuming that you have a future at this institution. Next year’s budget’s going to be a little tight, I understand, so a number of departments will probably have to be dropped.’ He paused. ‘Are you any good with tools, Sarafawn? There’s a very nice little vocational school at Jura, I hear. You’d just love Daconia.’
The Dean cleared his throat again, a bit more urgently this time.
‘Sorry, Dean Altus,’ Itagne apologized. ‘I’m running past time, gentlemen, so I’ll just briefly sum up one more development. Despite their crushing defeat, Cyrgon and Zalasta were by no means powerless. In a bold stroke, Zalasta’s natural son, 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 Altus has been so patiently awaiting, I will take up Prince Sparhawk’s reaction to this new development.’
PART ONE Berit (#ulink_0f2e1fa1-fd4c-502c-9d09-8dd30c76292d)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_245ed0c9-3e0a-5ced-bf1a-c6a51acb2505)
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 quarter-mile away.’ He put his Ogre-horned helmet back on. ‘The Troll-Gods 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 Alean 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 crag 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 forcing him to think very hard about the things he’s supposed to conceal, and that’s all Xanetia really needs. We always seem to underestimate Bevier.’
‘It’s all that praying,’ Kalten said sagely. ‘It’s hard to take a man seriously when he’s praying all the time.’
‘We’re Knights of the Church, Kalten – members of religious orders.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘In his own mind he is more dead than alive,’ Xanetia reported later when they had gathered around one of the large fires the Atans had built to hold back the bitter chill. The Anarae’s face reflected the glow of the fire, as did her unbleached wool robe.
‘Were we right?’ Tynian asked her. ‘Is Cyrgon augmenting Djarian’s spells so that he can raise whole armies?’
‘He is,’ she replied.
‘Was that outburst against Zalasta genuine?’ Vanion asked her.
