Van Duyn slept
with his back to a boulder, his big rifle across his knees. Presumably, Andre
deCourteney slept, though it might have been his choice to leave his material
body, to contest against ill wishes and nightmare thoughts directed at his
friends by spiteful inhabitants of the mountains, to send them flying before
his undeflectable wrath.
At any rate, no
harm came to any of the renegades from Coramonde there.
Shepherds
hadn’t been in evidence on the western side of the range, having fled rumors of
war, but the eastern side was something else again. As they rode down the next
morning, they encountered many flocks of rank-smelling sheep and goats and
traffic of various sorts. The people seemed a fairly amiable lot, though they
watched the riders with care.
Before long, a
body of horsemen bearing lances showed up to block their path and ask their
business. They were well armed, dressed in shirts of gambeson under mail, with
plaid woolen pantaloons and colorfully enameled helmets. Their leader, wearing
a winged casque, identified himself as a captain of the border guard of
Freegate.
Andre came
forward and said his name, adding, “These are my friends and allies, here to
caucus with your King and at his behest.”
The captain was
plainly impressed but dutifully skeptical, and instructed his second-in-command
to proceed on patrol with half the complement, positioning the remaining men
before and behind the newcomers to serve as both honor escort and guard detail.
They went at a
rapid pace toward Freegate proper; one soldier plucked a horn from where it
hung at his side and blew loudly when the party approached any town or
obstruction in the road. People and livestock alike scuttled from their path
and the riders’ travel was unimpeded.
By midafternoon
they were down out of the foothills and passing through shallow valleys and
occasional stretches of wood. Springbuck saw none of the remnants of times
before the Great Blow which one encountered in Coramonde.
Finally, just
beyond a last wide band of forest, the sun splashed from the white, lofty
spires of Freegate. When they left the shadows of the timber, those who hadn’t
theretofore seen the free city gasped; Springbuck understood why it was one of
the foremost strongholds of the world, a place where men walked with heads up
proudly and eyes bright. Andre knew of only one place as imposing, the sea
citadel of the Prince of the Waves.
And when the
company of tired fugitives looked upon Freegate the Enduring, much of their
weariness was forgotten and hope lifted their hearts once more.
With a
host of furious fancies,
Whereof I
am commander,
With a
burning spear and a horse of air,
Into the
wilderness I wander.
TOM O’BEDLAM’S SONG
FREEGATE stood upon a plateau in the valley. But perhaps it
would be more accurate to say that the city and the table of land on which it
was built were separated from the rest of that country by a gulf some half mile
or more wide; while the plateau was level with the rest of the region, the
chasm around it dropped nearly a thousand feet to a moat of extremely dense
jungle—the only visible means of entrance to and egress from the city. The
Western Tangent met the other three Ways at an awesome roundabout a mile or so
beyond Freegate, connected by an approach artery to the stone bridge-way.
Perched on
their side of the jungled gap, an imposing barbican defended the entrance.
Through it passed a steady flow of people and animals, for the stone avenue was
broad enough for a passage of men, vehicles and beasts in both directions.
Sentries occasionally stopped this or that one, but most who went through the
barbican to Freegate did so unmolested.
Nor were the
newcomers to be discommoded by stoppage or search; at the blast of the
patrolman’s horn, the sentries cleared the passage and traffic stood to either
side of the road to make way for King’s business.
The view of the
chasm far below, with its carpet of jungle, was a dizzying sight for most of
them. The gates of the city proper, enormous valves of metal set in gleaming
walls, stood open as evidence of Freegate’s peaceful posture. Within them, an
officer of the metropolitan Watch sat horse, behind him two score of mounted
men with coats of plates and pennoned lances carried butt-in-rest.
“What
transpires?” he bellowed at the procession, which drew here to a halt.
“King’s
business,” responded the captain of patrollers, and the Prince saw that this
was formulaed challenge-and-answer.
“Specifically?”
“The
thaumaturge Andre deCourteney, whom I recognize from his previous visit here,
and his entourage for audience with the King.”
“Return to your
duties, if you please; I shall conduct them to His Highness.”
The patroller
rendered a salute, a raising of his flattened right hand, and was saluted in
return. He then wheeled his horse and set off to the west, with his men behind
him.
The watch
officer addressed Andre. “My lord deCourteney, the King is at the hunt, but his
sister, the Princess, will certainly wish to receive you at the palace.”
Springbuck
thought to intrude but decided not to; Andre must have reasons for not
acknowledging his presence.
They resumed
their way again with metropolitan Watchmen taking up the positions vacated by
the border troops and brazen cymbals replacing the blaring horn to clear their
path. They clattered through well-kept streets on wide cobblestones, passing
shops, inns, countinghouses, temples, vendors’ booths and homes. The palace,
seat of the Freegate Kings, stood a short ride from the gates. Encompassed by a
dazzling wall, it wasn’t nearly as extensive as Earthfast. Storerooms, armories
and a capacious cistern were located beneath it, and relatively few troops were
quartered there. They reined in near the broad, chalk-white steps leading to the
main doors of the palace. A groom stood nearby holding the ornate bridle of a
graceful dun mare, the majordomo personally seeing to the arrangement of its
riding tack. The officer explained his mission to that worthy, who came before
Andre and addressed him with much deference and dignity.
“Eminent sir,
the King is at the hunt, whither her Radiance the Princess Katya plans to go
straightway to join him.”
“We will wait
here then,” said Andre, “and I shall speak with her when she arrives.” Again,
the Prince wondered that the wizard did not demand an audience in the throne
room with more formality. But Andre disliked the obligatory graces of royalty
with their circuitous language and formal dithering, and the outdoors suited
his taste well enough.
The majordomo
hurried away as Van Duyn craned his neck to study the royal palace. It was a
graceful structure and, like the wall surrounding it and most of the rest of
the city, light and fair. There were many windows, balconies and terraces to
it; scarcely architecture conceived with thought of war. The monarchs of
Freegate must have implicit trust in the might of their outer fortifications
and fighting men, he thought. At the top of the building was a large windmill.
Van Duyn had noticed a number of them since coming to the city and wondered
about their use.
The American’s
gaze, by some coincidence, went to the double doors just as a young woman
appeared at the threshold; she was plainly the Princess Katya, for the
majordomo bustled in her wake. Van Duyn sucked in his breath as she stepped
into the light, stricken as so many had been by their first look at her.
She was tall,
extremely so, with long, show-girl legs, full hips and a slim, supple waist.
Her shoulders were limber and athletic, and her white-gold hair was caught up
in a single hawser-like queue, bound with thongs. Her features were finely
molded—a sensitive coral mouth, long nose and flaring dark eyebrows over violet
eyes. She was in hunt clothes of glossy leather, britches with attached boots
and a halter to contain full breasts. Low at her hips, a belt supported a brace
of knives strapped down to either thigh. She was eating the last fragments of
meat from a brochette. As she paused to toss it to the majordomo, Van Duyn
studied the arresting profile.
She faced back
to speak to them and he found her voice quite pleasant and orotund. “Welcome,
Andre.” She smiled, and it was as though the day had become brighter and
warmer. “You have come with a considerably larger retinue this time, if in
obvious haste. It’s always enjoyable to have you visit us with your—” She
hesitated for an instant, and when she continued, her voice was tinged with
amusement. “—your darling little sister.”
Gabrielle’s
carriage stiffened, and she scorned even the curtest of acknowledgments.
Meeoowww!
thought Van Duyn.
“I have other
companions of no small prestige,” Andre was saying. “This gentleman is Edward
Van Duyn, who comes from far away and even farther. And here is our leader, His
Highness, Springbuck, of Coramonde
Ku-Mor-Mai.”
Katya betrayed
no surprise as the Prince doffed his plumed war mask and bowed politely in the
saddle, returning his courtesy with an inclination of her head and a wider
smile. Springbuck was gratified with Andre’s reference to him as leader and
Protector Suzerain. His vision was sufficient to permit him to study the
Princess fairly well at this distance. The wizard had told him that, on seeing
her for the first time, some of Reacher’s blood brothers from the Howlebeau had
instantly named her
Sleethaná,
after the beautifully dangerous albino
snow leopardess of the steppes. Springbuck understood their reference
immediately. She had an elemental appeal, conveying wild, free, supreme
self-reliance.
“Ah, yesss,”
she said, and he saw the feline eyes inspect him and felt his heart beat speed
up. “The Prince—no, His Highness, you said? The
Ku-Mor-Mai-
in-exile is
your title then?”
He shifted in
his saddle and responded as casually as he could. “Madam, I am Surehand’s heir
and have been in exile since I passed the merestone on the border of our two
lands.”
She laughed.
“Exile? On the run, you mean, but more of that later. My brother will want to
hear. It took you all long enough to get here, though. We shall go; you, Van
Duyn and the deCourteneys and I to join Reacher at the hunt. That is, unless
any of you feel too fatigued to come?” She spoke her last sentence gazing
guilelessly into Gabrielle’s eyes. The sorceress returned the look with hauteur
and Springbuck hoped that she was not about to unleash some horrible spell in a
fit of pique.
Instructing her
servants to see to the other members of the party, Katya leaped lithely into
the saddle, spurred her mount and was away, the others trailing behind in
varying amounts of proficiency. Without escort or entourage, they galloped
through the streets; and though the people didn’t bend knee or otherwise abase
themselves at her passing, many called gay greetings with obvious affection for
their spectacular Princess. Van Duyn had the thought that the Snow Leopardess
probably never received any overly familiar or rude halloos; she struck him as
being quite capable of defending her dignity against all comers. He speculated
as to whether her brother would turn out to be a self-conscious twerp dominated
by a bossy older sister. It would fit the pattern in a case like this, with an
elder, female Tarzan sort of sister.
They raced
through the city and the gate at the opposite side of town from the stone
bridgeway, then past areas of open drill field and military exercise lots. On
uncluttered ground, Springbuck gave Fireheel his head. The long-legged gray,
with the grace and speed of small desert breeds and the size and endurance of
northern bloodlines, surged forward; after a short but fierce contest for
passage, Fireheel gained the lead from the Snow Leopardess, who was urging her
mount determinedly. Her single braid stood out behind her in the wind as she
shouted and laughed for the pure joy of competition, while they tore past
cultivated fields and farmers stopped to straighten from their toil and watch.
The others’ horses were not up to this race, being fatigued, and the exclusive
duel was resolved when Springbuck got a sufficient lead to bring Fireheel to a
complete stop and turn before she could draw even with him.
She, too, drew
rein. “Why did you stop?” she demanded. “I was about to cajole my girl into
another try at that gray brute; it hurts her to see anyone’s hooves in her
face.”
The Prince
again removed his mask. “I merely stopped to give you and the rest a chance to
catch up. After all, I don’t know the land around here and I didn’t want to get
so far ahead as to become lost all alone.”
She laughed at
his gibe, no discreet titter but a fullblown roar, her head thrown back. “Aye,
the plateau lands are big enough to get lost in; twelve miles long and nigh
eight wide.”
Springbuck
spied the others coming up behind. “It could not be a natural formation then, I
suppose.”
“In part, but
it was altered back before the Great Blow fell. The stone bridgeway was
narrowed some, I guess, and the jungle in the chasm is part natural, part
man-made. And of course, the jungle itself was fostered and stocked.”
“Stocked?”
“Surely. No one
goes down there, and there are numerous stories about what lives there, but
when the dragons of the waste waged war on the city over one hundred years ago
and were repulsed with runic bolts whose art is lost now, some that were
wounded fell to the treetops below to be dragged down into them by something which
men never saw or identified.” They were riding stirrup and stirrup now, like
old friends, as the other three caught up and fell in behind. Springbuck was
thinking of her story, remembering Chaffinch, a
small
dragon. What could
possibly prey on such as that?