41
The High Froman didn’t like it—any of it. He didn’t like the fact that the prisoners were taking this much too docilely. He didn’t like the words that the Welves were dropping on his head instead of more treasure. He didn’t like the occasional musical note that emanated from the crowd below the Palm. Watching the ship, the High Froman thought he had never seen one move so slowly. He could hear the creaking of the cable drawing the gigantic wings inside the huge body, thus speeding the ship’s descent, but it wasn’t fast enough for Darral Longshoreman. Once these gods and Mad Limbeck were gone, life, he fondly hoped, would return to normal. If he could just get through the next few moments.
The ship settled into place, its wings trimmed so that it maintained enough magic to keep it afloat in the air, hovering near the Palm. The cargo bays opened and the monna fell onto the Gegs waiting below. A few of the Gegs began to clamor for it as it fell, those with keen eyes and good monetary sense latching onto the valuable pieces. But most of the Gegs ignored it. They remained standing, staring up at the top of the arm in tense, eager, (jingling) expectation.
“Hurry, hurry!” muttered the High Froman.
The opening of the hatch took an interminable length of time. The Head Clark, oblivious of everything, was regarding the dragonship with his usual insufferable expression of self-righteousness. Darral longed to shove that expression (along with his teeth) down his brother-in-law’s throat.
“Here they come!” The Head Clark chattered excitedly. “Here they come.” Whipping around, he fixed a stern eye upon the prisoners. “Mind you treat the Welves with respect. They, at least, are gods!”
“Oh, we will!” piped up Bane with a sweet smile. “We’re going to sing them a song.”
“Hush, Your Highness, please!” remonstrated Alfred, laying a hand on Bane’s shoulder. He added something in human that the High Froman could not understand, and drew the boy back, out of the way. Out of the way of what?
And what was this nonsense about a song?
The High Froman didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
The hatch opened and the gangway slid out from the bulwarks and was fixed firmly to the fingertips of the Palm. The elf captain emerged. Standing in the hatchway, surveying the objects before him, the elf appeared enormous in the ornately decorated iron suit that covered the thin body from toe to neck. His face could not be seen; a helmet shaped like the head of a dragon protected his head. Slung from his shoulder was a ceremonial sword encased in a jeweled scabbard that hung from a belt of frayed embroidered silk.
Seeing that all appeared in order, the elf clunked ponderously across the gangway, the scabbard rattling against his thigh when he walked. He reached the fingers of the Palm, stopped and stood gazing about, the dragon’s-head helm lending him a stern and imperious air. The iron suit added an additional foot of height to the elf, who was already tall. He towered over the Gegs and over the humans as well. The helmet was so cunningly and fearsomely carved that even Gegs who had seen it before were awed. The Head Clark sank to his knees.
But the High Froman was too nervous to be impressed.
“No time for that now,” snapped Darral Longshoreman, reaching out to grab hold of his brother-in-law and get him back on his feet. “Coppers, bring the gods!”
“Damn!” swore Hugh beneath his breath.
“What is it?” Haplo leaned near.
The captain had clanked his way onto the fingers. The Head Clark had dropped to his knees and the High Froman was tugging at him. Limbeck was fumbling with a sheaf of papers.
“The elf. See that thing he’s wearing around his neck? It’s a whistle.”
“So?”
“Their wizards created it. Supposedly, when the elves blow into it, the sound it makes can magically negate the effects of the song!”
“Which means the elves will fight.”
“Yes.” Hugh cursed himself. “I knew warriors carried them, but not watership crews! And nothing to fight with except our bare hands and one dagger!” Nothing. And everything. Haplo needed no weapon. Rip the bandages from his hands, and by his magic alone he could destroy every elf on board that ship or charm them to do his will or send them into enchanted slumber. But he was forbidden to make use of his magic. The first sigil whose fiery blaze he traced in the air would proclaim him a Patryn—the ancient enemy who had long ago very nearly conquered the ancient world.
Death first, before you betray us. You have the discipline and the courage to make that choice. You have the skill and the wits to make that choice unnecessary.
The High Froman was ordering the coppers to bring the gods. The coppers started toward Limbeck, who firmly and politely elbowed them out of the way. Stepping forward, he rustled his papers and drew in a deep breath.
“Distinguished visitors from another realm. High Froman, Head Clark. My fellow WUPP’s. It gives me great pleasure—”
“At least we’ll die fighting,” said Hugh. “With elves, that’s something.” Haplo didn’t have to die fighting. He didn’t have to die at all. He hadn’t expected it would be this frustrating.
The squawky-talk, designed to loudly transmit the blessings of the Welves, was now loudly transmitting Limbeck’s speech. “Shut him up!” shouted the High Froman. “—throw up your hackles. No, that can’t be right.” Limbeck stopped. Peering at the paper, he took out his spectacles and put them over his ears.
“Throw off your shackles!” he shouted, now that he could see. The coppers surged forward, grabbed him by the arms.
“Start singing!” Haplo hissed. “I’ve got an idea!” Hugh opened his mouth and began to boom out in a deep baritone the first notes of the song. Bane joined in, his shrill voice soaring above Hugh’s in an ear-piercing shriek, heedless of tune, but never missing a word. Alfred’s voice quavered, almost unheard; the man was pale as bleached bone with fear, and appeared on the verge of collapse.
At the first note, the Gegs below let out a cheer and, grabbing their weapons, began to toot and jingle and wheeze and sing with all their might. The coppers above heard the singing below and became flustered and distracted. The elven captain, hearing the notes of the dreaded song, grasped the whistle that hung from around his neck, raised the visor of the helm, and put the whistle to his lips.
Haplo touched the dog lightly on the head, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and pointed at the elf. “Take him.”
All Flame as Heart, surmount the Ridge, All noble Paths are Ellxman. Sleek and swift and silent as a thrown spear, the dog cut through the tangled crowd and leapt straight at the elf.
The elven iron suit was ancient and archaic, designed primarily to intimidate, a remnant of olden days when such suits had to be worn as protection against the painful affliction known as “the bends” that struck those sailing swiftly up from the Low Realm to realms far above. By the time the elf captain saw the dog, it was airborne, aiming straight toward him. Instinctively he tried to brace himself for the blow, but his body, encased in the clumsy armor, could not react fast enough. The dog hit him square in the chest and the captain toppled over backward like a felled tree.