Chapter 35

Between beefy puffs and gasps for air on the treacherous climb up Drimnin’s rocky face, Muck complained again, “I cannae see the point of scaling this bloody cliff, just to confront whoever t’was toting those torches during the night.”

Kruzurk’s surprisingly agile pace up the steep, roughly hewn steps ascending the cliff wall had given everyone something to gasp about, but there were no more complaints. Nearly to the top of the battlements, Kruze, Muck, Eigh and Mediah sensed a strange, almost eerie hush to their surroundings. All conversation ceased. Even Talisman’s irritated screeching gave way to stony silence without so much as a warning from Eigh.

Stepping through the gap at the top of the parapet, Kruze’s staff jutted abruptly into the air over his head, stopping the others behind him. “Oh my . . .” he gasped, blinking from the sudden and unexpectedly bright morning light.

Muck craned his neck to see around Kruzurk. He finally moved ahead, breaking the silence with, “Aye, that would be Rrr-rrum way over yonder.” As if to emphasize the point, when Eigh finally ascended the top step Talisman’s enormous wings broke into a flapping frenzy.

The vista on the other side of the catwalk appeared endless. A profoundly blue ocean stretched almost to the horizon, capped by a misty, saddle shaped island that, on the one hand seemed to beckon ‘come hither’ while on the other offered a warning that to do so might spell one’s doom.

“Whoever you are, you are not welcome here,” an ancient voice groaned from somewhere to Kruzurk’s right. “I warn you—we are armed!”

Five heads turned as one. “You’ve nothing to fear from us,” Kruze answered.

“Then why bring you swords and armor and a great winged beast, if you mean us no harm?”

Talisman’s high-pitched screech let the voice know that he did not appreciate being called a beast. Kruze waved to Eigh to silence the bird. He took a few halting steps toward the adjoining tower’s darkened archway, still unable to make out the form of his inquisitor. “I can only tell you that I—er—we bring no evil intent. My friends and I journey to Rhum—yonder, across the water—to help a young boy defend his birthright.”

“Then why stop you here? No one visits Drimnin. Not since the dark days of the Vikings,” the voice demanded.

After taking several more halting steps toward the tower, Kruzurk propped his staff against one of the crenellations so that he could pull the grimoire he’d carried with him from the catacombs out of his pack. The book flopped open to the spot where Olghar’s cross had been hidden, bright sunlight giving the gilded cross an almost divine radiance. Well back in the tower’s shadows, a collective gasp from a host of tiny voices rippled across the stone catwalk.

“Forgive me. I know not why, exactly, but I felt someone here might be able to translate this book for me,” Kruzurk said, quietly as though praying for penance.

A low, melodic chant began to emanate from the tower, sending shivers up the backs of all four men. “Whence come you, pilgrim?” the one voice asked. “And where did you find that grimoire with the cross in it?”

“I did not find it exactly. You might say the book was liberated from a place called Blackgloom Keep. And the cross is not mine—it belongs to one who travels with us. He claims to be a priest of the Russ.”

“Liberated? Then the Seed is dead?”

Surprised by that comment, Kruze hesitated before adding, “Aye. He is, and all his minions destroyed.”

“Impossible!” the voice snapped back. “Neither man nor magic could best the Seed.”

“All things are possible, given time and sufficient effort,” came Kruzurk’s well practiced reply. “But the Seed is dead, I assure you. I witnessed his demise myself.”

“So, you are a sorcerer yourself, then, eh? For it is well known that the Seed’s sorcery could only be overcome by a sorcery greater than his.”

“Not so. His own foul greed destroyed him—not I.”

“And what of the rest of the Blackgloom treasures?”

“I’m told that most of it is safely stored in a priory,” Kruzurk answered, having stepped several paces closer to the tower but still unable to see the shape of his host. “Might I ask who you are and how you come to know of the Seed and his treasure?”

The voice snapped back, “You may not. I will ask the questions and you will answer. Or, you will return to your ship and be gone from here.”

Kruzurk closed the grimoire, tucked it under his arm and said quietly, “As you wish.”

“Now, tell the one with that bird to leave us. We allow no beasts here, especially predators. The others should leave, too, or toss their weapons from the battlements.”

Eigh and Muck didn’t hesitate, opting quickly to head back down the steps to the Pandora. Before they left, Mediah handed them his shield and short sword, determined to stay with Kruze no matter what.

Satisfied, the inquisitor pressed his query. “About this Russ—where is he, and why carry you his cross secreted in that evil book?”

“I beg to differ with you, m’lord,” Kruzurk replied. “There are no evil books—only evil minds who interpret the contents for their own evil purposes.”

Kruzurk went on to describe his encounter and travels with Olghar, hoping the tale might entice his inquisitor to step out into the light. That did not happen. Questions continued to fly from the darkened archway almost as fast as Kruze could answer, each one evoking a slightly louder chorus of chants from the inquisitor’s cohorts and a corresponding decrease in the magician’s patience.

Finally, Kruzurk had had enough. He reached for his staff and strode purposefully toward the arch, anxious to force the issue or hasten his exit. He could make out hooded shapes in the shadows, but still no faces. “Will you show yourselves, that I may know who you are and why you ask so many questions?”

The murmuring in the background told him that a conference had begun and that his tales were the main subject. He prepared to turn and leave, then stopped as sunlight flashed brilliantly off the polished surface of a strange, conical helmet worn by the smallish robed cleric who marched out of the shadows towards him.

“Good morning to you,” Kruze offered, satisfied that his trial by rota had ended.

“Tell me thy name, pilgrim,” the inquisitor said, a more congenial voice having supplanted the previously harsh timbre.

Kruzurk sized up the cleric facing him. Long reddish gray hair and a fluffy beard fell in loose clumps around the man’s shoulders, which seemed far too close to his waistline for a normal being. In one hand, the cleric clutched a crystal orb and in the other, a strange device resembling a fisherman’s trident, except that it looked far too small to use for fishing.

“I am called Kruzurk Makshare. I hail from middle Anglia.”

In the darkness of the tower, another collective gasp erupted, except this time it had a more discerning tone, as though his answer had been expected. The cleric’s face shown with an enlightened expression as well. “A palindrome, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Exactly as our scribes have foretold these twelve generations. There can be no doubt—you come in the company of a Russ, you have the grimoire in your possession and I sense a knowing about you that cannot be a ruse.” Turning toward the tower, the diminutive cleric raised the orb aloft and proclaimed, “He is the one, brethren. He is the one!”

* Aboard The Shiva *

Brude McAlpin, the Great Deceiver, had stood his silent vigil on the bow of the Shiva all night. Requiring no sleep or rest of any kind in his resurrected form, he played the role of sentinel for his shipload of mortal companions while Daynin and Ean were on their spying mission to Iona. Just then, the two highlanders came up against the Shiva’s stern in the longboat, reboarding without causing too much commotion.

“‘Bout bleedin’ time you two wuz gettin’ back here,” Peckee growled. Although his newly gained position as ship’s master brought little of the respect from his shipmates he thought he had earned, Peckee nevertheless had taken to the job like it was a birthright bestowed. “Can ye not see the sunrise is upon us, old man? Damned pilgrims.”

With one hand on the stern rope to steady himself, Ean reached down and drew the sgian du from his sock. Daynin’s boost from the longboat below lifted the old man past the tiller block to almost waist level with Peckee. Ean’s eyes flashed upward with that red hot Scotian temper, his sock knife suddenly poised within a hand’s span of Peckee’s private parts. “Ahh was fightin’ warr-rr-s afore yew were a wet spot on yer-rr-rr mam’s bed covers, boy, and if ya value yer-rr-rr jewels, I’d stow that pilgrim talk and the attitude.”

Peckee stepped back to distance himself from the razor sharp blade. His head spun ‘round as his eyes caught a glimpse of the giant making his way sternward. Caught between a demon and a dagger blade, Peckee suddenly realized his captaincy had lost much of its luster. “Meanin’ no disrespect,” he pleaded, “I wuz just lookin’ out for the good of the ship.”

By now, Daynin had secured the longboat by its tether and joined Ean on deck, face to face with the frightened Peckee. “You’re lucky we need you, captain,” Daynin replied. “Elsewise grr-rr-andfather might slit ya from yer knees to that rather ample nose, as I’ve seen ‘im do ta many a mahn.”

Ean almost snickered aloud at that remark. The boy has grown up, he told himself. And in so short a time, I wouldnae thought it possible. A beaming smile, mixed with mirth and a great deal of pride, spread across the old man’s heavily lined face.

“What is all this uproar?” Brude demanded, only slightly lowering his voice from the normal booming bravado.

The three men wavered under Brude’s sudden verbal assault, as well as with the swaying of the ship his movement inevitably caused. Ean turned about, not fully realizing he faced the giant’s immediate presence. “Stay yerself, ya rusty relic. The situation is well in h . . .”

Only Sabritha’s sudden appearance from below decks kept Brude from knocking Ean on his backside. Her long black hair and shapely figure instantly captured everyone’s attention—even the Great Deceiver’s. “What’s all the commotion?” she snapped. “Why aren’t we moving?” It seemed no one had a craving to answer her. It had become common knowledge aboard ship that to do so brought a hail of verbal barbs few men could stand against.

Peckee seized the opportunity to regain some of the power his position brought with it. “Avast ya blue water beggars!” he barked. “All hands, lively now—to the sheets—up anchor—let’s get the ladyship’s barge under way!”

* Aboard The Woebringer *

Plumat stared up at the jury-rigged mast, its ratlines and rigging straining heavily against the northeasterly gusts that pushed the Woebringer ever closer to the southern tip of Caledonia. There, Captain Coke had told him, the winds shifted to a southeastern quarter and would drive the ship northward into the ocean sea toward Rhum.

“So, tell me, Plumat, how do you know that prior was telling you the truth? He could have picked any island name that came to mind. You have no way . . .”

Plumat cut him off sharply with, “Ranulf, that prior was just a boy, scared spitless by a hot iron held to his eyes. He spilled his guts like a bull blasted from a ballista. It’s Rhum all right. That’s where they’re headed. I asked those in Glasgow for the location, and the captain confirmed it. Fifty leagues to the north, give or take a dozen leagues—that’s where we’ll find the boy and his band of brigands. That’s where they’ll meet justice. We’re not taking them back to Carlisle. You were an agent of the King’s Eyre—you can try them in place and we’ll hang ‘em on the spot. The whole lot will be done with and we’ll have the treasure to bring home.”

Ranulf cast a worried glance at the ship’s tattered rigging. “Aye, if we make it that far.”

* Drimnin Keep *

Kruzurk and his companions sat quietly around the great stone table Perazelzeus and his brethren had set before them. A magnificent midday feast was laid out, replete with fresh fruit. Kruze wondered aloud. “Master Perazelzeus, how is that you have this wonderful fruit here in this clime?”

The modest little cleric smiled at that telling question. “Please, Master Makshare, call me Zeus. I rather fancy that less formal moniker. One of my brethren came up with it after reading about the Greeks and Romans. It suits me rather well, don’t you think? As for the fruit, I can only tell you that we carry on a thriving trade here at Drimnin. In fact, it is one of our best guarded secrets. Traders come to us from the ends of the earth.”

Having just enjoyed the taste of several new spices for the first time, Kruzurk crowed, “Ah, so it is possible to sail from Anglia all the way to the Spice Islands in the east!”

Perazelzeus sighed deeply before answering, “Well, not exactly—at least not yet. Much of the distance must be covered overland, through Persia. But I believe that one day soon, a great adventurer will find a way to sail west to the Spice Islands.”

“West!?” Mediah gasped. “But what of the ocean sea and the monsters dwelling there? Won’t a ship sail right off the edge?”

“Ah, that is the great question, my Greek friend,” the cleric answered. “Can ships on the verge of the ocean sea fall into oblivion or continue westerly across the wide expanse of ocean I believe to be there? Sadly, no one has yet been there and back to tell us.”

“Norse traders from the lands of the Russ have done so,” Olghar professed. He had remained virtually silent all morning, preferring to listen and absorb what was said. His only comment thus far had been an expression of surprise at the invitation to join Kruze and Mediah, but now his creaking gristmill of a voice seemed anxious to engage the cleric. “That is how I learned my many languages—from those traders. They say there is another world to the west; but it is very difficult and dangerous to reach.”

From the darkened regions of the great hall, a cacophony of cane rattling erupted. “Quiet brethren! The Russ can speak. I will not have you being so rude to our guests!”

“Thank you, Master Zeus. So, tell me—what is it that traders trek across half the known world to seek from you here? Knowledge perhaps, or magic, or something even more powerful?”

Sensing that the Russ already knew the answer, the little cleric pushed his chair back, tapped several times on the table to stem the murmuring of his minions, and stood up. Pushing his sleeves back, he announced, “Since you are traveling with the One we have been expecting, I will tell you Olghar of Russ. But I warn you—this secret must never be uttered outside these walls, else you will bring such a cataclysm to mankind that your name will forever be damned by mages and mortals alike.”