Jaspin told quickly the minute fragments of information he had been able to drag from the Harrier. “There are six and there is a woman among them-the Queen, I believe. It is fair certain they have gone to the ruins of Dekra-to hide, most like. Everyone knows there is nothing there.”
“There is more at Dekra than people know,” said Nimrood. The faintest trace of worry crossed his wrinkled face, but was instantly banished by his haughty leer. “They will leave that place as they must. I will ready a special surprise for these bold travelers. Yes, I think I know what it shall be.” Then speaking again to the Prince he continued, “You serve me well in spite of yourself, proud Prince. And you have earned yourself a reprieve from my anger. It may be I can use you yet.”
“You are forgetting your place, wizard!” Jaspin, incensed at the staggering insolence of the necromancer, rebelled. “It was I who hired you-you serve me!”
“I tire of your games of petty ambition,” hissed the sorcerer. “Once it suited me to further your childish schemes. But I have designs you cannot imagine. But serve me well, and you shall share in my glory.”
The pyramid lost its crystalline transparency and became cold and solid once more.
Quentin had begged and otherwise pestered Mollena into arranging a meeting with Yeseph for him at the earliest possible time. That meant the moment he opened his eyes the very next morning, the day after their limited tour of the ruined city.
Toli sat opposite Quentin over their breakfast, pointing at objects around the room, and demanding that his instructor supply the appropriate word that he might learn it. Quentin, although it seemed sometimes a colossal chore, beamed with pleasure at his pupil’s progress. Toli could already speak halting sentences, albeit simple ones, and could understand most of what Quentin said to him, though he could not always repeat it. When others were around, however, he usually lapsed into his native tongue.
They were deep in concentration when Quentin heard the old woman’s shuffling footsteps on the stone steps outside the kitchen where they were finishing their meal.
“Mollena! What news? When can I see him?” he blurted as soon as he saw her creased, kindly face poke into view.
“Soon… very soon.”
“Mollena…”
“Today-we will go as soon as you are ready.”
“I am ready now!”
“No, you have not finished your food. You must eat to regain your strength.”
Toli watched this conversation, as he did most others, in an alert silence. But then he broke in, demanding in his own tongue to know what Quentin prepared to do. “What is it that my friend requires?”
Quentin ate and related to him as well as he could the discussion between Durwin and Theido, their disagreement and the final resolution that had brought them to Dekra. Toli nodded and said, “This leader, Yeseph, he will tell us what we are to do?”
Quentin would not have put it quite that way, but after considering for a moment, nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, he may tell us what we are to do.” Mollena, who had observed their talk with admiration for the growing bond between the two, now stood them on their feet.
“Let us go, you lazy young men. It does not do to keep a Curatak leader waiting.”
The three hobbled together over the jumbled stones of the deserted streets. Quentin, again, was impressed by the elegance and grace of the vanished Ariga’s city. Even in its crumbling state the abandoned buildings spoke of a purity and harmony of thought and function. Surely, buried here were treasures beyond material wealth.
As they made their way along, occasionally meeting a group of Curatak workmen hauling stone or erecting scaffolding around a sagging wall, Mollena explained to Quentin who Yeseph was and how properly to address him. Quentin listened attentively, careful to mark her words so he would not offend the man best able to answer his questions.
They turned down a walkway, or narrow courtyard, lined with doorways which opened onto a common area of small trees and stone benches. “These are the reading rooms of the Ariga library,” Mollena explained as they passed the open doors. Quentin peered through some of the doors to see scribes busy over scrolls at their writing desks.
“Where is the library?” he asked, realizing that he had seen no structure large enough to house the great library that had been described to him. He looked around to see if he had somehow missed it.
Mollena saw him craning his neck, looking for the library and laughed, “No, you will not find it there. You are standing on it!” Quentin’s gaze fell to his feet and his expression changed to one of puzzlement. “It is underground. Come.”
She led them to the end of the narrow courtyard and to a wide doorway. Inside they crossed the smooth marble floor of a great circular room, ringed around by murals of robed men. “Those are Ariga leaders,” Mollena indicated with her hands spread wide. “We know little of them now, but we are learning.”
In the center of the round room, which contained no other furniture of any kind that Quentin could see, rose an arch. As they approached the arch Quentin saw steps leading down to an underground chamber. “The entrance to the library,” he said.
“Yes; notice how the steps are worn from the feet of the Ariga over the ages. They were lovers of books and knowledge. This,” she again embraced the whole of the edifice with a wide sweep of her arm, “this is our greatest charge: to protect the scrolls of the Ariga, lest they pass from human sight and their treasures vanish with the race that created them.”
Quentin caught something of the awe with which the old woman spoke; he was touched as before by the mingled reverence and excitement, as if he were in the presence of a mighty and benevolent monarch who was about to give him a wonderful gift.
“There,” Mollena pointed down the darkened stairway. “Yeseph waits for you. Go to him-and may you find the treasure you are looking for.”
Quentin stepped forward and placed his foot on the first stair. Instantly the darkened stairwell was lighted from either side. He turned to Mollena and Toli, who appeared about to follow him but then hung back uncertainly, and experienced the strange sensation that he might never return. Brushing the feeling aside, he said, “I won’t be long.” Then he proceeded down the stairs.
He had just reached the bottom when he heard a voice call out, “Ah, Quentin. I have been waiting for you.” Quentin stepped forward into the huge, cavernous chamber to see more books than he had ever seen in one place. Shelves three times the height of a man held scrolls without number, each one resting in its own pigeonhole, a ribbon extending on which was written the title of the book and its author and contents. So taken was he by the staggering display he did not see the small man standing right in front of him.
“I am Yeseph, an elder of the Curatak, and curator of the library. Welcome.” The man was dressed simply in a dark blue tunic over which he wore a white mantle edged in brown.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said Quentin, somewhat disappointed. He had expected someone who looked like a king or a nobleman of stature, not a short, balding man who walked with a slight limp as he led the way along the corridors of shelves.
“Come along,” the curator called after him, “we have much to talk about and much to see.” Yeseph stopped, standing between two tall shelves, and said, “I can tell a book-lover when I see one-you belong here, you know.”
Quentin started, as if to speak; the words seemed to fly out of his head-banished by a most remarkable sensation. It was if he had been there before… seen it just like this… somewhere, sometime-long ago, perhaps. He had been there, and now had returned.
TWENTY-THREE
Nimrood sat brooding on his great black throne, draped over it like a wind-tossed rag. Incensed at Prince Jaspin’s bumbling ineffectiveness, he nevertheless grudgingly considered that the chance encounter of Theido and Pyggin had brought about an even better possibility than he had planned-the opportunity of defeating that meddlesome hermit, that bone in his throat, Durwin, once and for all.
As he mulled over these recent developments, a new plan began to take shape. He called for his servants to bring him the keys, which they did, as they carried out all his orders, with stumbling haste lest they displease their perverse lord.
“Tell Euric I will see him in the dungeon at once,” snapped Nimrood to the quaking wretch who had brought the keys. He snatched the large ring from the servant’s trembling hand and flew like a bat from the throne, across the room and out.
In a further part of the dungeon, Euric, a man almost as depraved as his keeper, found Nimrood unlocking the door to a special cell. “Allow me to do that for you, master,” the swarthy, gap-toothed Euric croaked. He took the keys and in seconds swung open the reluctant door. Nimrood stepped in to the darkened room. He clapped his hands and fire leaped from his fingers to a torch sitting in its iron holder on the wall. He handed the torch to Euric and indicated that he was to lead the way.
Through the chamber and a door at the opposite end they went. The second door opened onto a narrow hall lined with cells. They hurried past these cells and came to the end of the passage which terminated in a narrow flight of stone steps twisting down into a black vault below.
The two entered the vault. Nimrood clapped his hands again, and torches all around the room flashed to life. There in the guttering glare of the torches lay nine massive stone tables in rows of three. Six of the tables were occupied by the prostrate forms of six mighty knights bedecked in gleaming armor, with swords clutched over their chests and their shields across their loins. Each one appeared composed and serene, only sleeping, in an instant to join the call to arms. But their flesh bore the ashen tint of dead men’s flesh and their eyes were sunken like dead men’s eyes.
“Death’s Legion,” hissed Nimrood. “Look on it, Euric. It is terrible, is it not? Soon it will be complete, and I will give the signal and these, my army, will arise. With them I will conquer the world. Who can stand against such as these-the boldest knights the world has ever seen. He moved among the slabs calling out their names: “Hestlerid, Vorgil, Junius, Khennet, Geoffric, Llewyn…”
Euric indicated the three empty biers. “Who will occupy these places to complete the number?”
“One is for Ronsard, who would be here now if not for Pyggin and his men-but I have given them another chance. They bring him now by sea; the other is for King Eskevar, who shall be commander of my Legion. Very soon now he will join his new regiment. His will is strong; he lingers yet. But my will is stronger and he shall be mine ere long.”
“Look how still they sleep; even death does not diminish them.”
The necromancer’s eyes glittered with excitement as he beheld his handiwork.
“And who is the last slab for, great one?” asked Euric. He fully enjoyed his participation in the black arts as much as did Nimrood.
“The last I feared would have to remain empty. The great knight Marsant died in that petty war against Gorr, and the ignorant barbarians burned his body.”
“But now it appears I shall not lack a full complement of warriors to lead my soldiers into battle. Theido, that troublesome renegade, will be joining us at last. He will no doubt thank me for the opportunity to serve his King in death as once he served him on the battlefield in life.”
“How will this be accomplished?”
“Did I not tell you? The gods decree that I am indeed fortunate. Pyggin found him wandering the wharf of Bestou where they await the sailing season. It seems the foolish knight wishes passage for himself and his companions to Karsh-they would come here!”
“Since they are so eager to die, I will not disappoint them. Pyggin will deliver them to their destination all right. And with a courtesy they do not expect. Ha!”
Euric’s face glimmered in the dim torchlight. His eyes rolled up into his head ecstatically as he contemplated his foul lord’s intricate machinations. He bowed low, saying, “You shall rule the world, Nimrood.”