Within the Hollow Crown (19 page)

Chapter
47: Planning Ahead

Jareld hated fieldwork.

He had avoided it feverishly for the seven years of study he had spent at the Towers of Seneca, and all of his teachers knew how to avoid Jareld by climbing a few flights of stairs. He hated the fifteen kinds of mud in Arwall, he hated the eighteen kinds of snow in Aceley, and he hated not having a comfortable bed to sleep in.

He also hated things that crawled in the dark, just out of sight, and waited for you to fall asleep so they could inject you with poison.

And so, he could not sleep his first night in the Caves of Drentar. But if you took away the dank caves, the mud, the snow, and the poisonous critters, he still wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Because it was something else that was keeping him up.

“Thor, are you awake?”

“How would I know if I was dreaming?”

“Good point.” After a moment, Jareld continued, “How would I know if I was dreaming?”

“Your dreams wouldn’t include me, I hope.”

“Also a good point.”

Jareld turned to his other side to see Corthos snoring away. Jareld felt it was unfair that he could sleep so comfortably. He must have gotten the good spot.

“Thor, what do we do about the papers?”

“We left them in the boat.”

“No, I don’t mean the papers themselves. I mean, what do we do about what they said? What do we tell people?”

“What do you think we should tell them?”

“The truth.”

“So, we tell them the truth.”

“Of course we do.”

Jareld rolled back over to his first side. He heard something scurry away on the far wall, but didn’t care at the moment.

Tell the truth. Jareld had never been obsessed with the truth. He had only obsessed with historical fact. A very subtle distinction. He wanted the record to be correct. Factual. And he always figured people would be better off knowing the true version of history.

But this time he had doubts. The most dangerous thing Jareld could imagine would be to announce that the King wasn’t the King. There were consequences to the truth, and for the first time, they seemed worse than the consequences of lying.

“Thor?” Jareld said after a few minutes. “Are you still awake?”

“No, I’m having a nightmare. Someone keeps talking to me.”

“What if we didn’t tell anybody? Like Dorn. What if we just keep it to ourselves?”

Thor rolled over and sat up, leaning against the wall in thought. It was rare that Thor put much thought into what he was going to say, and so Jareld assumed he was about to say something very profound.

“My back hurts,” is what he said, reminding Jareld that he should have known better.

“What?”

“Here’s something that should put your mind at ease,” Thor said, “Based on my latest estimates, only one out of every twelve people who go into the Caves of Drentar come out alive or at all. Of those that come out, only one in five still have their full mental faculties. We, by comparison to almost every other expedition that has entered the Caves, are less prepared, weaker, have fewer supplies, and have no ability to engage in meaningful combat. Of the three of us, Corthos is most likely to live, and he doesn’t know about the truth, not that he’d care very much. So, I think we shouldn’t worry about what we’re going to say to people if we survive, because we most likely won’t.”

Thor, satisfied with his answer, yawned, stretched, and rolled back up into his blanket.

“And you thought that was going to cheer me up, did you?”

“I actually only hoped that it would stop you from asking me questions. I want to get some sleep.”

“Well, get some sleep. I’m going to stand watch.”

And within minutes, Thor’s snoring joined Corthos’ snoring in a sort of nasal duet. Jareld, not worried so much about dying as living, stayed up through the night, wondering about the strange turn his life and the world’s history had taken in the last couple of weeks.

Chapter
48: The Reasons

Against Lady Vye’s protestations, Halmir was immediately locked up and bound. Halmir went peacefully, even helpfully. His faith in Vye was complete.

Vye and Michael had a long, uncomfortable conversation. Vye confessed her part in Halmir’s escape, and her failure to save Prince Anthony. She pleaded, not for herself, but for Halmir, insisting that he had changed. That he was not the same man who had att
acked them on the first day of summer.

As dusk settled over Hartstone Castle, Michael and Vye descended into the dungeon. Vye opened the cell and released Halmir’s restraints.

“Stand up,” Michael said. Halmir did so. “Lady Vye is convinced that you are reformed. I don’t believe her. Not yet. But if you want to curry any favor with me, start talking, and don’t stop until I tell you to.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Vye kept referring to your Master. Who is he?”

“His name is Argos.”

“How have we never heard of him? We have spies in the Turin Mountains. Not many, and the truth is they report to the King, not me. But if there is a man as powerful as you say, how has he been kept a secret?”

“It is his way. He commands from the shadows. He has influence over many, but contact with very few.”

“And you are one of those few?”

Halmir nodded. Michael glanced at Vye. She gave him a look. It was a look that could only be understood between two good friends who had known one another for more than a decade. It was a look of reassurance, that he was on the right path, that she still trusted Halmir, despite all the evidence telling them not to. Michael sighed.

“Tell me about Argos.”

Halmir took a deep breath and began. It was a long story, but he would tell every part he knew, and guess at any part he didn’t. Argos was older than anyone else in the Turinheld. Nobody knew how old he was. Nobody could speak of his childhood, nor did anyone know of his parents or other relations.

By contrast, though, he seemed young. Yes, his hair was silver white, but it was still rich and full, and his skin was the sort of thing women wished they could buy in bottles. Only his eyes seemed ancient. Not the wrinkles around his eyes, for he had none. Just the depth of his eyes, which seemed sometimes to glow with a blue fire.

And his voice was a thing unto itself. Deeper than oceans, older than stars, it dug into your mind and coiled around you. His command was absolute, and Halmir was certain he wouldn’t have been able to betray Argos so easily if he hadn’t been away for so long.

Halmir was convinced Argos had spent some time in the Kingdom of Rone. He spoke of specific locations, describing them in exquisite detail. He knew far more of the terrain, the landmarks, the foliage, the seasons, than someone could get by scrying. Argos was also the best historian amongst the Turin, inasmuch as the Turin have historians.

And he seemed to take the insult of the Rone personally. It was here that Halmir had the hardest time describing his former Master, for he had learned the lessons so well.

“Forgive me,” Halmir paused. “He believes that the Rone are evil. That they must pay for the brutal attacks of the past. The pillaging, the slaughtering. He hates the people of Rone. He swore he would undo their reign over the continent. I’m sorry to speak so plainly about the past. I’m trying to describe my Master.”

“You do not need to apologize for describing the past,” Michael assured him. “It is our past as well as yours. And I happen to know you speak the truth.”

Halmir was certain Argos was the one who started the war. The Regent, the man who was technically in charge of the politics of the Turin, would never have been so impractical. He knew that, at best, the Turin would only have been able to muster thirty thousand soldiers. That would represent every able-bodied man and woman they could muster.

By cont
rast, the Rone had almost a one hundred thousand citizens of the appropriate age. That wasn’t counting the 245 Dukes, Counts, Barons, Bannorets, and unlanded Knights, each wearing better armor than anyone in the Turinheld could hope to afford.

But Argos knew something about the people of Rone. They were not a unified people. Not the way the Turin were. They had their Duchies, their Baronies, their noble families. Each was in a constant struggle for stature and position. They played a constant game of marrying nobles to other nobles. They had different flags and different customs. They were unified by their law, but not in their hearts.

All he had to do was create confusion about the line of succession, and the Kingdom would crumble. So, Halmir concluded, he must have convinced the Regent to raise that army. To put at risk every age-appropriate, able-bodied man and woman. To arm them. To train them. And to send them forth with orders to raze the Kingdom to the ground.

It was working. Avonshire and Brimford, the two largest territories of the Kingdom were, even now, obliterating one another. And with each soldier killed in that conflict, the Rone had one less soldier with which to fight the Turin.

“Well,” Michael said, “Then there’s only one thing to do?”

“What’s that?” Vye said.

“We’ll have to get Avonshire and Brimford to like each other.”

“Oh,” Vye said, “Is that all?”

Chapter 49: Darkness

The map was incredibly accurate. Even at those times when it seemed the passage would be too confusing, the map was very precise about where they were meant to go. Jareld, Thor, and Corthos made good progress, inasmuch as progress can be accurately measured by going further into the darkest, deadliest caves in the world.

It wasn’t until the third night that they encountered their first major obstacle. While the map clearly dictated the direction they were supposed to go, it didn’t explain how they were supposed to get around the cave-in that blocked the passage.

“Well,” said Thor, “I hope the map doesn’t want us to go that way.”

“You mean forward?” Jareld said.

“Methinks we must find another way around,” Corthos said.

“Not likely,” Jareld said. “If we didn’t have this map giving us such precise directions, we’d be in Khiransi by now. Or dead.”

“Or both” Thor said.

“We do not have a choice,” Corthos said. “We cannot move the rocks alone.”

“Give me a minute to think,” Jareld said.

He looked back. It was dark, pitch black, just beyond the range of the torch. The cylindrical tunnels, created by the Platonic Worms, curved where the light
died; leaving a darkness unlike any Jareld had seen before. In these Caves, with their legendary deadliness, he did not dare veer off the path. There was no hope in that direction.

But there was something in that direction. Something moving. Another venomous creature with claws and fangs and whatever? Probably. But his eyes weren’t good enough to see much in this darkness.

“Corthos, what’s that?” he asked.

Before Corthos could even look, an arrow flew overhead, just missing Jareld’s left ear. Corthos tossed Jareld to the ground before taking cover himself. Thor, hearing the arrow clatter against the rocks threw the torch down the hall. He missed the assailant, but his actions helped anyway. Now it was Jareld, Thor, and Corthos in the cover of darkness, and the assailant who was well lit.

And he was Turin. And he wasn’t a he. He was a they. Jareld could only see silhouettes against the torch, but there were at least half a dozen, and they were closing in.

“Corthos,” Jareld whispered, “We have to get out of here.”

“There be a turn off the main tunnel, only ten paces back,” Corthos said.

The archer was notching another arrow. The others drew swords and inched into the darkness. The Turin were staring into the darkness, trying to spot their quarry.

“OK,” Jareld said, “We crawl for the turn.”

“Quietly,” Corthos whispered.

The three of them crawled at an excruciatingly slow pace. Foot by foot, they approached the turn in the tunnels. Meanwhile, the Turin were also moving down the hall, step by cautious step. They were on a molasses-speed collision course.

Suddenly, a shadow passed in front of the dormant torchlight. Jareld looked up and saw that one of the Turin swordsmen was only
a few feet from him, listening out in front of him. Jareld stopped moving. The swordsman stopped. Jareld tried to move again. The swordsman snapped in his direction.

Jareld turned his head back to Corthos, who was right behind him. Whatever expression or mouthed order Corthos was giving, Jareld couldn’t see.

The swordsman took another step. He was right on top of Jareld. If Jareld had been made of fine leather, he could have been the man’s boots.

The man swept out with his sword. Fanning the air above Jareld. Jareld didn’t have time to think. He hooked his arm arou
nd the man’s legs, and pulled out. The man stumbled back, wheeling his arms to keep his balance. Before he could recover his footing, Corthos was up, swung his sword, and impaled the man in the chest.

Jareld and Thor got up and scampered down the turn in the tunnel and into complete darkness. Jareld could hear Corthos match swords with someone behind him, he heard a scream, and then he heard more footsteps behind him.

Jareld turned his head to see who or how many were following him, but he couldn’t see anything. He turned his head forward again, but it didn’t make much of a difference.

Thor, meanwhile, was leading the way by feeling along the walls. The two of them kept stumbling along, but they kept hearing footsteps behind them.

Finally, Thor tripped on something, Jareld tripped on Thor, the floor gave way, and the two of them were spilled down a level.

Jareld tried to get himself up. He could smell the dust of the collapsed rock, and he could feel the bruises, but he could only think of how to keep moving.

Unfortunately, in trying to stand up, Jareld got extremely dizzy, wobbled around for a moment, and then passed out.