The White Fox (24 page)

“Ah yes, that’s a fiery relationship there.”

Hearing that, something occurred to Jack. “You’re speaking differently.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your accent is different. It’s sort of …” He was going to say Persian or Arabic but realized that wouldn’t mean much to either of the elves.

“Oh, we’re speaking in Khălesen. It’s our native language. But that’s no problem for you,” she said, pointing at his ring. It was glowing again, but now with teal rather than green.

Jack became aware of a guard standing nearby, waiting to speak. They turned towards him.

He looked flustered, and, unlike the others, he was in armor without any rations to distribute. “His Majesty, King Thorin, requests your presence at an urgent war meeting.”

Adâ groaned but stopped at a reproachful glance from Sardâr. “Very well. We’ll go now.”

The guard nodded and left.

“What do you think it’s about?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but it can’t be good. Jack, find Lucy. I think you two should hear this.”

A few minutes later, Jack, Lucy, Sardâr, Hakim, and Adâ arrived at Thorin’s throne room. He was pacing when they came in, his violently ginger beard frayed and unkempt and his eyes ringed red and weary. Jack had seen him only the day before, but he already looked a shadow of his former self, as if he had been pacing around the throne room all night. Another dwarf was seated next to the throne, and he looked even worse for wear; his arm was in a sling, and his face was cut and bruised.

An attendant scuttled over to them and motioned for them to sit.

“Once again, Sardâr, it is a great relief that you are safe,” the king said.

“No thanks to you,” Adâ retorted, and Jack noticed that she was talking in the more rough Scandinavian accent he now associated with whatever the native language of this kingdom was.

“Quite,” Thorin replied, “but we have more pressing matters to deal with. There has been … well, the captain can explain it better than I …” He motioned to the seated dwarf, who cleared his throat painfully.

“We were on a surveillance expedition to the coast,” he began, “and they’re bringing in giants.”

Jack could tell this meant something to both Sardâr and Adâ, for they sat bolt upright in their chairs.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Colossal dwarves, the size of large trees. The stories are true.”

“So whoever’s behind this has gone to the bother of shipping in giants,” Sardâr said, rubbing his chin. “That
is
something.”

“Exactly,” concluded Thorin, “which is why we have no time to waste. We have passed the time when we could have abated this conflict before it started. Now it is unavoidable.”

“Excuse me,” interjected Jack, “but why is it unavoidable?”

Thorin turned his head to look at him.

“Because,” answered Sardâr when Thorin said nothing, “if whoever is behind this is bothering to ship giants in from other countries, possibly even other worlds, then they mean business. They won’t answer to a truce.”

“It could just be a threat,” Lucy said.

“Possibly,” said Sardâr, but he sounded unconvinced. “Thengel, have there been any other sightings?”

“A fair few,” replied Thorin, “though nothing like this. Trolls have been seen, though they’re nothing unusual around these parts. Plenty of greenskins, of course. Filthy, slimy, reptilian—”

“Thengel,” Sardâr interrupted.

“I know. I know,” the king snapped back, “but it’s in our nature to hate them. Our people have been enemies for as long as anyone can remember.”

“As have yours and mine, and yet we manage. Or would you like to take a few of us down to the mines and chain us to the axes?”

The king flushed. “That’s not all.” He motioned for the captain to continue.

“These goblins and giants were led by elves. Well, I thought they were elves; they were taller than us. All of them in black cloaks. They were sorcerers. They killed my entire regiment and … left me alive to carry back the message.” He looked down, as if the memory pained him more than his injuries. “The leader … he told me to say that Archbishop Iago sends his regards and will be in contact shortly.”

Jack saw Sardâr and Adâ exchange looks, mouthing the name to each other, evidently not recognizing it.

“He said,” the captain continued, looking as if he was forcing out the last words, “that you may remember him by the name Zâlem Khâyen.” Sardâr’s normally amiable expression darkened instantly. Hakim and Adâ exchanged shocked looks, laden with understanding.

“Who’s Zâlem?” Lucy asked when no one endeavored to explain.

“Zâlem Khâyen is no more than a traitor, a thief, and a murderer.”

“A murderer?” said Lucy, intrigued, but Sardâr seemed unwilling to say any more.

After a pause, Hakim took up the story. “Our home country, Khălese, is ruled by a president who is elected every five years. Twenty years ago, a member of the house of Khâyen was elected. His son was Zâlem. He was a brilliant sorcerer and the perfect student: intelligent, ambitious, and engaging. I can tell you that from being his teacher. However, there were people in the academic community who … distrusted him.”

“There were rumors,” carried on Adâ, “nasty ones. A few of his rivals at university picked on him or else achieved better and gloated about their success. They were never right again.”

Sardâr seemed to not be able to resist having his say. “I filled in for one of the history teachers whilst he was on sabbatical and I taught Zâlem. I won’t deny he was brilliant. He had ideas about politics and history no other student or teacher could imagine. But as Hakim said, he was ambitious. He was a radical politician who believed that Tâbesh and the entire kingdom should be for elves only. Now that kind of talk in a seminar will earn you a bit of attention and debate, but to actually carry out the kind of ideas that he was suggesting would take an enormous amount of resolve.”

Hakim continued. “Sardâr uncovered a plot headed by Zâlem to take control of the kingdom … a plot which entailed killing the president.”

“His own father?”

“Yes. Zâlem had become tired of his father’s liberal approach, and he decided to take matters into his own hands. You see, we elves don’t have it very easy, particularly around dwarves.” Hakim glanced at Thorin, but the king wore a stony expression and was staring straight ahead. “Dwarves in both this world and ours have tended to have a history of colonization. There have been some very expansive dwarf empires in the past, and often these have been at the expense of the native elves. In past years, it has even been known for dwarves to enslave elves … and there’s often still prejudice about it. Zâlem believed that his people deserved the right to take back their honor at the expense of other races that coexist with us in our kingdom. He gathered the usual crowd for a radical orator—a mixture of enthralled fanatics, ambitious young political cronies, and thugs looking for a break into major business. It was a serious threat to our democracy and security.

“Sardâr rushed off to tell me and the president. Of course, the president wasn’t having any of it. And you can’t blame him; it was his own son. So we took to guarding him secretly … which wasn’t easy, given his complete denial of any danger. Then one night, whilst Zâlem’s fellows subdued our guards, Zâlem managed to get into the president’s bedchamber whilst he was sleeping, but Sardâr arrived just in time to prevent the murder. They fought, and when Zâlem was rendered defenseless, the president woke up. He saw both in his room, Sardâr holding a dagger, and, well …”

“It was a choice between an academic and the president’s son,” said Adâ. “Naturally, the president exiled Sardâr and let his son go free.”

“So what happened to Zâlem?” Jack asked, intrigued.

“He disappeared a few years later after completing his education. The president might not have liked it, but Sardâr has quite a following in our community. They believed his side of the story and didn’t take kindly to him being exiled by the person he was trying to protect. Zâlem didn’t have much choice; once his father was shunted out of office he was on his own.”

“So he’s back,” Sardâr remarked, staring in the distance.

There was silence. Noises from outside seemed numbed. Everyone in the room was focussed on Sardâr, who was in turn apparently focussed on the king’s throne.

Finally, after several full minutes, Sardâr spoke again. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised that he’s ended up with the Dionysians. Ambitious, fanatical, a firebrand orator and commander—everything they could want in a recruit. And he’s risen up the ranks to control an entire operation.” He directed his next remarks at the king. “We suspected the Cult was involved with the stirring up of war here, but this is far worse than I thought. We need to discuss matters … alone. Hakim, Adâ, if you would please take Jack and Lucy and leave.”

Both nodded, their expressions grave.

Jack’s last look at the room was to see Sardâr get up and begin pacing in a mirror of the king’s movements. He could only pity the surviving captain caught in the middle of this.

The four of them spent the rest of the morning distributing food and drink to the refugees. Very little was said. The tension within the main chamber had risen considerably and not just amongst them. Already, rumors of what had befallen the erring scouting regiment were dispersing through the fortress quicker than the bread and milk. The miners still worked, the refugees still trickled in through the main gate, and the guards still patrolled and handed out rations, but everything seemed more hurried. Jack noticed the increased amount of disconcerted looks being thrown at the wide open main entrance. He could tell that the guards on the gate in particular were eager for the flow of refugees to cease, so they could barricade themselves behind the thick stone and wood.

After several hours, Sardâr emerged from the throne room corridor, looking raw but resolute.

Jack, Lucy, Adâ, and Hakim virtually dropped their baskets of bread and hurried over to see him.

He assuaged their inquisitive looks with a brush of his hand. “We have been discussing additional security arrangements. The night guard is to be bolstered, and the fortress secured from the bottom up. The gates are not to be opened after nightfall, and no one is to enter or leave the fortress. Additional regiments are to be dispatched daily to escort arriving villagers into the valley. We’ve reasoned that the only feasible course of action is to lock down our defenses and wait. We don’t know what Zâlem and his cohort are planning, and we can’t take any serious course of action until we do.”

“This would be so much
easier
with technology that wasn’t just wood and stone,” Adâ muttered. Jack and Lucy both nodded.

But Sardâr shook his head. “You know the consequences of that. We’ll just have to make do.”

“Yes,” said Hakim, “a weapons crisis, on top of everything else, is the last thing we need. Did you get a chance to ask the king about the tutoring?”

“Yes, I did. He agrees that, given the circumstances, Jack and Lucy need to be as prepared as everyone else here.” He turned to the two of them. “Learning how to defend yourselves is no longer a matter of leisure. We will begin classes tomorrow. I will have to share my time between teaching you and dealing with matters here, so if I take the mornings, then Adâ and Hakim can take the afternoons.”

The two other elves nodded, as did Jack. Lucy seemed less enthusiastic. Despite her multiple certifications that she would rather be back at home, the prospect of something akin to school did not spark her imagination.

Jack and Lucy spent their first proper evening in Thorin Salr with Hakim and Adâ, as Sardâr was attending to the implementation of the new security measures. They ate some kind of charred meat and smoked cheese that tasted delicious in the East Guest Hall and sat for a while as the sky began to darken around them.

After a few minutes of silence, toastily comfortable in the warm cavern, Lucy spoke. “So what do people do around here for fun? I mean, are there any bars? Rec room? Anything?”

Hakim pondered this for a moment. “We could go downstairs. If I’ve got my days right, you should be in for a treat.”