The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [2]
“Oh. That must have been trouble.”
“Indeed. Our ship was too badly damaged for us to leave, and too big to hide. It was a matter of little time before we were discovered.”
“What did you do?”
“I marched over to the pirate camp and challenged their leader to a duel of honor.”
“He accepted?”
“He had to. Pirate chieftains must appear to be strong, or their men will not follow them. If he had refused me, the next day he would have had to fight ten of his own lieutenants. As it was, I relieved him of that worry by killing him.”
“And then what?”
“I challenged the second-in-command. And then the next, and so on.”
Ehawk grinned. “Did you kill them all?”
“No. While I fought, my men took possession of one of their ships and sailed away.”
“Without you?”
“Yes. I’d ordered them to.”
“And so what happened?”
“When the pirates discovered what had happened, they took me prisoner, of course, and the dueling stopped. But I convinced them the Church would pay my ransom, and so they treated me pretty well.”
“Did the Church pay?”
“They might have—I didn’t wait to see. I had a chance for escape, later, and took it.”
“Tell me about that,” Ehawk pleaded.
The knight nodded. “In time, lad. But you tell me now—you grew up in these parts. The elders at your village told many strange tales of greffyns, manticores—fabulous monsters, never seen for a thousand years, now suddenly everywhere. What do you make of that, Ehawk, m’ lad? Do you credit such talk?”
Ehawk considered his words carefully. “I’ve seen strange tracks and smelled weird spore. My cousin Owel says he saw a beast like a lion, but scaled, and with the head of an eagle. Owel don’t lie, and he’s not like to scare or see things wrong.”
“So you do believe these tales?”
“Yah.”
“Where do these monsters come from?”
“They’ve been t’sleep, they say—like how a bear sleeps the winter, or the cicada sleeps in the ground for seventeen year before comin’ out.”
“And why do you think they wake now?”
Ehawk hesitated again.
“Come, m’ lad,” the knight said softly. “Your elders were tight-lipped, I know, I suspect for fear of being labeled heretics. If that’s your fear, you’ve no worry about me. The mysteries of the saints are all around us, and without the Church to guide, folk think odd things. But you live here, lad—you know things I don’t. Stories. The ancient songs.”
“Yah,” Ehawk said unhappily. He glanced at Gavrel, wondering if he, too, had keener hearing than a normal man.
Sir Oneu caught the look. “This expedition is my charge,” he said, softly still. “I give you my word as a knight, no harm will come to you for what you tell. Now—what do the old women say? Why do unholy things stalk the weald, when never they did before?”
Ehawk bit his lip. “They say ’tis Etthoroam, the Mosslord. They say he woke when the moon was purple, as was foretold in ancient prophecy. The creatures are his servants.”
“Tell me about him, this Mosslord.”
“Ah . . . it’s only old stories, Sir Oneu.”
“Tell me nevertheless. Please.”
“In shape, they say he is a man, but made of the stuff of the forest. Antlers grow from his head, as on an elk.” Ehawk looked frankly at the knight. “They say he was here before the saints, before anything, when there was only the forest, and it covered all the world.”
Sir Oneu nodded as if he already knew that. “And why does he wake?” he asked. “What does prophecy say he will do?”
“It’s his forest,” Ehawk said. “He’ll do what he wants. But it’s said when he wakes, the forest will rise against those who have done it harm.” He cut his eyes away. “It’s why the Sefry left. They fear he will kill us all.”
“And do you fear that?”
“I don’t know. I only know . . .” He broke off, uncertain how to put it.
“Go on.”
“I had an uncle. A sickness came to him. There was little to see—no sores nor open wounds, no marks of fever—but he grew more tired as the months passed, and his eyes dulled. His skin paled. He died very slowly, and it was only near the end that we could smell the death in