The Indigo King - James A. Owen [71]
He showed them a curved, golden horn that had Greek letters etched into the sides. “My mother gave it to me,” he explained, “and said to use it only in a time of great peril.”
Jack looked around at the countryside, which seemed empty of life, save for a few mice on the hill and a distant bird, circling in the sky. “Peril?” he asked. “Did we miss it?”
The boy reddened. “I know. I must seem a fool for using it so lightly. But I lost my way, and I’m out of food and have little water, and I didn’t think I could hold out much longer just wandering around.”
“How long have you been traveling?”
“A month,” the boy answered. “I came from high in the mountains, where it is still winter, riding hard. I had to abandon my horse when I crossed the water, and I’ve been walking for several days now. Then today I decided to use the horn. I’m already late, and if I arrive too weak from hunger and thirst, then I’ll have no chance at all in the tournament.”
“What tournament?” asked Jack. “Where are you going?”
“The tournament at Camelot,” the boy said, “to choose the High King of this world and of the Unknown Region.”
The companions looked at each other in astonishment.
“What’s your name, lad?” asked John.
“I’m called Thorn,” the boy said. “Have you got anything to eat?”
They opened up the packs prepared for them by the badgers and held off asking anything further while Thorn tucked into the food and drink. John stood a few feet away, watching, while Chaz busied himself reading the Little Whatsit to see if there were any language translation aids to be found there.
Jack walked around the other side of the tree, watching Chaz with an odd expression. “Do you get the impression,” he said to John, “that the Chaz we’ve ended up with isn’t the one we started with?”
“I know what you mean,” John replied, looking over his shoulder at the former thief and self-confessed traitor, who had become completely absorbed in reading the badgers’ handbook. “At first I thought it was just that he had a knack for languages. He is a chosen Caretaker, after all. He had the aptitude, even if he’s from a timeline where he never became the educated man we know. But it’s more than just remembering Greek, or being able to translate it, then speak it, after only days among the native speakers. He isn’t struggling—he’s fluent. He’s … he’s … changing, isn’t he? Almost like …”
“Almost like he’s becoming a lot like another scowler we know and respect?” said Jack.
“Something like that.”
“How can that be?” asked Jack. “Isn’t it a different world altogether? He can’t be our Charles.”
“It wasn’t a different world for Bert,” John replied. “He was, in many ways, ‘our’ Bert—at least he claimed to be. Maybe, in some small way, this is still ‘our’ Charles.”
“Hey,” Chaz called out, marking a page in the Little Whatsit. “I think I finally found a place that sounds worse than Albion. According to th’ book, it’s called ‘Cambridge.’”
It was a full minute before John and Jack could stop laughing.
“I don’t get it,” said Chaz.
“Uncas will explain it to you later,” John told him.
“Well,” Jack said, looking at their empty satchels and drained flagon, “so much for our provisions.”
“We haven’t even been here an hour,” John replied, “and we aren’t even sure what we’re supposed to do. Why don’t you just go back into Sanctuary and restock? That way we’ll be prepared for anything and won’t go hungry later.”
“Good idea,” Jack answered, gathering up the bags and heading around the hill. “I’ll be right back.”
“Is Sanctuary where I summoned you from?” asked Thorn. “When I blew Bran Galed’s horn?”
“We weren’t summoned,” John said. “It was just a coincidence that we came when we did.”
“Really?” said Thorn. “What did you come here for?”
Before John could explain, Jack came running up to the tree, a panicked expression on his face.
John took his arm. “What is it? Are the badgers all right?”
“I don’t know!” Jack exclaimed. “I didn’t have the chance to look!”
“Why not?”
“The portal!” Jack said with rising terror in his voice. “It’s gone! We can’t get back!