The Last Banquet (Bell Mountain) (15 page)

“Relax, I’m not here to fight,” said Helki. “Sheathe your weapons; let’s be friends. You’re going to need friends, if you stay in Obann.”

The Griffs sheathed their blades and honored Helki with salutes and bows, which from them was a pledge of peace. Knowing that they wouldn’t break the truce now, Helki went to their campfire and sat down among them, Cavall beside him.

“Don’t mind my hound,” he said, noting some uneasy glances. “He knows his manners as well as you or I do.”

There were formalities to endure before Helki could bring up the purpose of his visit. These Griffs were uneasy, and it took some time before they were ready to talk.

“I’m looking for two children and a man,” he said, and described Jack, Ellayne, and Martis. Before he could get much farther, he had his answer.

“Those three were our prisoners,” said the man who’d seen his fight with Shogg. “We captured them. Our mardar meant to take them East. But then—!” he shook his head.

The band of a hundred Griffs were now scattered. The God of Obann had struck their mardar blind. If the men had stayed with him, they would have been blinded, too. They’d left the prisoners, wanting nothing more to do with them: indeed, they were afraid of them. Unable to think of any better plan, these dozen men were traveling back to rejoin their army at Obann.

“It’s too late for that,” Helki said. “Your army doesn’t exist anymore: God saw to that.” And he told them how the great beast, with the boy king on its back, routed the host of the Thunder King. Their eyes went wide with fear and wonder.

“Then it’s even as the boy dreamed it, the night Chillith’s eyes were darkened,” said one.

“What shall we do?” cried another. “We’re cursed. Obann’s God is stronger than the Thunder King. He will destroy us all.”

They wailed together, as Griffs sometimes do, and Helki was hard put to quiet them.

“There’s no need to mourn yourselves,” he said. “You’re not dead yet, nor blind, and you don’t have to be. Obann’s God is stronger than the Thunder King, and He’ll take care of him like He took care of Shogg. Don’t think I killed Shogg by my own strength! It was God who killed the giant. Anyone who tries to stand against God isn’t going to stand for long.

“But I have good news for you! Obann’s God is not just Obann’s, but the God of all the nations. And He’s not just strong, but merciful—a lot more merciful than any man. If you turn away from the Thunder King and put your trust in God, and serve Him, God will be merciful to you, too. He’ll accept you as His own. Four thousand Heathen already belong to Him, and they’re mighty glad they do.”

“But how can that be?” a Griff asked. “Why should Obann’s God be merciful to us?”

Helki made a face. “Now you’re asking me to explain things, and I’m no teacher,” he said. “But there’s a teacher in Obann who can teach you all you need to know. In the meantime, you can start serving God right away. You can join up with me and help me: I reckon that’s why the Lord brought us together today. But you’ll have to decide for yourselves.”

Twelve men in a land of enemies, with their great army miraculously destroyed, and their own captain smitten blind, and a divine curse hanging over them—they didn’t need much more encouragement than that. They all stood up and bowed to Helki.

“We are yours to command, Giant-killer,” said one. “From now on, we serve the God of Obann. My name is Tiliqua, son of Thurr, and I give you my word, freely, of my own free will.”

“And I, your honor!” said another.

“And I—Shalamac, son of Thilonoc!”

They all twelve pledged themselves to Helki, and to Obann’s God. They did it with much ceremony. Helki sighed. This was not the kind of thing he’d ever expected to be doing in his life. He’d been happy in the company of hawk and hound, and wanted nothing more. Now he had twelve men who would pester him to make decisions. But he supposed it was what God wanted—no telling why.

Somehow Orth didn’t die. He blundered around and around the fens, not even knowing that he’d crossed and re-crossed the Chariot River. By the grace of God he stumbled upon a deserted cottage, and there he stayed. At least now he had a roof over his head and four walls between himself and the wind—between himself and the unknown, unseen beasts and birds that wailed, roared, shrieked, whistled, and rumbled all day and all night long. At least he hoped they were only beasts and birds, and not devils.

He ate raw eggs when he could find them, raw fish when he could catch them with his hands, the remains of a big cheese that he found in the cottage—but mostly he starved. Every waking moment, he was hungry. Every day he foraged for food around the cottage, never daring to wander out of sight of it. As a city man, ignorant of the wider world, he went hungry where a marsh-man would have found ample food. But Orth knew nothing of trapping, fishing, or digging up edible roots and tubers.

So Hlah, the son of Spider, hurrying up the Chariot, found him late one morning—a trembling scarecrow of mud and filth who screamed when he saw Hlah and tried to flee, but slipped in the mud and fell. He skidded on all fours, moaning, until Hlah grabbed him by the hair and put a stop to that.

“Here, now, stop that noise!” Hlah shook him. “I won’t hurt you! But who are you, and what’s the matter with you?”

Orth goggled at him with fearful eyes, and Hlah knew he was talking to a madman. “Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

Orth hadn’t been in the fens long enough to forget his name, nor what he used to be. But this stranger was a savage, with a shaved head and tattoos all over his skin: a barbarian who was likely to kill him, no matter what his name was. But Orth didn’t want to speak his own name. He didn’t want to utter it ever again. An angel might be listening.

“Leave me alone!” he answered. “God’s curse on me! The slaughter-angel is hunting for me. Go away!”

Hlah saw the cottage, pointed to it. “Is that where you live?” Orth nodded. Hlah helped him to his feet. “Let’s go sit in your cabin and have a bite to eat.” He’d learned to speak good Obannese, and the madman understood him.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he said, as he pushed Orth toward the cottage. “I’m King Ryons’ man: he’s king in Obann now.” But at those words Orth broke down with shudders, and Hlah couldn’t keep him on his feet.

Abnaks make shamans of their madmen, and for as long as they are harmless to others, treat them well. It never entered Hlah’s mind to harm this madman. Besides, he was Heathen no more, and he’d been taught that violence and cruelty offended God. Even so, it took all of his patience to maneuver Orth into the cottage and set him down on the rough bed he found there. Then Orth began to blubber like a child, so Hlah shook him by the beard and had to slap him once.

“Talk like a man!” he said. “And tell me your name.”

“I won’t!” Orth shook his head. “I dare not. I will never speak my name again.”

“Won’t you tell me anything?”

“Let everything about me be forgotten!” Orth said.

Hlah shrugged. It was no use arguing with a madman. “Under those rags you wear,” he said, “and under all that mud, you’re skin and bones. You don’t know how to take care of yourself. If I go away and leave you, you won’t live to see the winter.”

“Better, that way,” Orth said. “God’s curse on me!”

Wishing to do the man a kindness, Hlah gave him a drink from his waterskin and a strip of jerky from his bag. Orth gnawed it like a wolf. Hlah gathered some wood and built a fire in the cabin’s little hearth. He gave the poor madman the last of the bread he was carrying, too. Tomorrow he would have to hunt. Finally he wet a rag and wiped several layers of mud from the man’s face. Kindness to strangers, Obst taught, pleased God. It made a change from scalping them, thought Hlah.

“Will you tell me why a curse is on you?” he asked.

“I cannot.”

“You don’t know?”

“Oh, I know!” Orth said, gnashing his teeth. “I’ve sinned great sins.”

What should he do with the man? Hlah pondered it all day, and on into the evening. Just before it was time to curl up in his bag and go to sleep, he decided.

“Hear me, whatever your name is,” he said. “I can’t just leave you here to die, but I’m on my way to Abnak country. I have to go there so I can teach my people to worship the true God—we shouldn’t be heathens anymore. So I suppose I’ll have to take you with me and hope your wits come back to you along the way. Maybe you can help me teach my people. You’re Obannese. You must know more about God than I do.”

Orth stared at him, then threw back his head and laughed out loud, laughed until he cried. The whole marsh rang with it.

“Mad as a magpie!” Hlah thought. “And therefore very holy. Like as not the people will kill me and make him their shaman.”

It wasn’t an easy night. Several times the madman woke Hlah, babbling in some language that sounded like Obannese but which Hlah couldn’t understand. He wondered if maybe it was praying of some kind. Hadn’t Obst said the Scriptures were in an ancient language? Maybe this poor devil knew the Scriptures. That would make him useful.

The next day Hlah spent collecting food for another two or three days’ traveling. He’d changed his plans for traveling along the Imperial: from what he’d heard along the way, the upper reaches of the river swarmed with enemies—including an intact army that had not yet descended into Obann. That was what had convinced him to follow the Chariot instead.

He knew enough to dig up edible roots that would tide them over for a while, and he was lucky enough to snare a plump animal that was probably edible. It looked like a beaver without a beaver’s tail.

The second night in the cottage was as bad as the first, but the morning was worse. After a meager breakfast, Hlah said, “Well, friend, let’s be on our way. It’s a long journey to the Abnaks’ country, and we want to be over the mountains before the snow falls.”

“Mountains!” cried Orth. And then ensued a struggle. He sprang at Hlah, reaching for his throat. He was a big man, and out of his senses—no easy job subduing him. Hlah had to knock him down and wrestle him, tie his hands behind his back, and gag him.

“Behave yourself!” he said. “It’s for your own good. You can’t just stay here and die. As for your angel, and your curses—if an angel really wanted you, don’t you think it could come after you here in the marshes? You might as well come with me and help me to serve God. My people will surely take you for a holy man.”

Orth glared at him, but when Hlah yanked the rope, he had no choice but to go along with him.

Maybe it was right, he thought. After all, there was no escaping God’s wrath. It didn’t matter whether he crossed the mountains or not. He’d betrayed the Temple—how could he look for anything good to happen to him?

He surrendered to God’s judgment.

A few days after Tim and Osker left for Obann, the scouts brought dire news to Jocah’s Creek.

Hamber, the town where the villagers used to go to services at the chamber house, had been taken, ravaged, and was in the hands of enemies. And it was only fifteen miles down the creek.

“Zamzu are there now,” Shingis said, “big men, very strong. They eat man’s flesh. We see maybe five, maybe six times our number. They make slaves of town people. Some they eat. They make the people dig deep ditch all around, so no one can get in or out. Maybe someday they come here.”

“What are Zamzu?” Gurun asked.

“Men from south shores of Great Lakes. All peoples fear them. They had a giant, but we hear a man killed him. No giant in Hamber—just plenty big men. Thunder King likes Zamzu very much.”

“If they do come here,” asked Gurun, “can we defend ourselves?”

Shingis grinned. “Best defense—run away!” he said. “You pray Obann God to keep Zamzu away from here. If they come, I don’t know.”

It wasn’t long before the entire village had the news. Old women wailed. Men gathered in small groups, nervously whispering.

“Counting some of the older men and bigger boys,” Loyk said, “this village has forty-four able-bodied men, none of them warriors. Add to that the twenty Blays, and we have sixty-four. Not much good against at least a hundred fighting men! And no militia anywhere! What are we to do?”

He was asking Gurun, as if she were a hero in the Scriptures and not a girl who was a stranger in the country. “Just a year ago,” she thought, “I was telling bedtime stories to my littlest brother. Now I am to be Elilah the Fox, whose strategy was better than an army! How would I know how to save this village?”

“Shingis says we ought to run away,” Loyk went on, “but where could we go? Our farms are all we have. If we lose them, we’ll never own anything again. And the old women and the little children—how far can they go? Such things have never happened in my time—or anybody else’s.”

Gurun wished her father and his friends were here: strong men, who would know just what to do. She didn’t!

“We shall have to pray,” she said. “Pray that God will fight for us, if it ever comes to that. Remember the story of Ishik the Old. In his day, three nations of the Heathen came up against the children of Geb, with an army of a thousand thousands. Ishik had two thousand men, no more. But the prophet told them to stand fast and see what the Lord would do for them.”